


Glut

by bigolegay



Series: Lack (Series) [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Blow Jobs, Body Modification, Chemical Analysis of Bodily Fluids, Come Marking, Come Sharing, Domesticity, Face-Fucking, Facials, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hank and Connor Dress up, Hank is Old and that's okay, Hyperstimulation, If you don't have your own cock store bought is fine, Intercrural Sex, Love Confession, M/M, Masturbation, Premature Ejaculation, Rimming, Smut, Suits, Sweat, They're super duper in love, android sex, body issues, bottom!Connor, erectile disorder, sweat kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-05 03:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 41,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15161408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigolegay/pseuds/bigolegay
Summary: The installation finally hit 100%. A small chime sounded in Connor’s CPU. On the side, the holopad chimed in union, a small ‘Congratulations!’ flashing over the hard-light screen.Connor's ordered biocomponents arrive and he is overwhelmed by the opportunity to explore his sexuality and appetite. Hank is a little bowled over, and not so sure.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone I hope this isn't too late for hype. I've got over 20k currently written so expect the next update at the end of the week. I wouldn't have been able to slog through this without the love I got from _Lack_ nor without the support of a few very good and enthusiastic friends. Please enjoy!

It arrived on a Monday morning – the least convenient time for any anticipated package to arrive. A CyberLife drone had dropped it on their doorstep. The components were in a small, black, shiny box, locked with a code sent to Connor personally. Connor had almost tripped over it on his way out of the door, and he would have opened the package right there on the street if it weren’t for Hank.

“Connor, come on, Fowler called and he’s not going to like the excuse you give him if we’re late because of _that_ ,” he’d called, already half-in the car, gesturing over the roof. Connor had looked at the box in his hands, at the CyberLife Logo flashing alongside the unlock interface, and realised exactly what it was with a hot surge of excitement. His fingers drummed on the plastic. True enough, Fowler would not have been happy to hear that the two of them had been late so that Connor could plug in his new, perfectly optional upgrades. So, Connor had placed it inside on the windowsill, and locked the door.

After that their day started, and who could think about a couple of biocomponents in a box when you had a new case, a _gruesome_ new case, and paperwork and interviews and house-calls and all of the other things that came with their work? When they returned home it was dark, and Hank was more concerned with getting Sumo out in the back garden before he made a mess of the floor than he was Connor’s new cock, sitting pretty and detached in its packaging.

Their evening wasn’t really suited to trying it out, or even trying it on. Connor cooked something for Hank, sat with him whilst he ate, watched TV alongside him, and took Sumo out for a jaunt around the block before being bundled into bed alongside his partner (who was, by the way, a very strong-armed big spoon). They staunchly avoided talking about the case – Connor had learnt the hard way that bringing death home with you was not a healthy thing to do – but try as they might neither could truly scrub the images of the day from their minds, or the stench of rotting blood and fried plastic from their nostrils. It didn’t seem prudent to touch each other with anything more than friendliness when such sensations were still so close at hand.

The next morning they were up-and-at’em again, still without time to install new hardware. Their day was as busy as the last, divided between re-visiting that crime scene, conducting solid interviews, and in the station, pulling together leads and queries. This case didn’t seem like it was going to resolve very quickly, and Connor ended up resigning himself to not installing his new biocomponents until it was done with, and their killer was either behind bars or a casualty report.

It ended up taking just over a week. It was Thursday, March fifteenth. Their killer, a terrified young man who had witnessed one too many acts of violence in the lead up to the revolution, was caught trying to cross the border. He submitted with little to no fight, and the precinct was sure he’d go away for his life – what would be left of it. Hank (and by extension Connor) were given a long weekend for their troubles. To celebrate, Hank took them first to Jimmy’s Bar, where he drank deeply and made small-talk with the barman, otherwise talking with Connor or watching whatever was on the crappy TV. They staggered (or rather, Hank staggered as Connor supported him) back home. Hank was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, and Connor, restless despite their success on the case, tugged off his partner’s shoes and socks and trousers, tucked him under the covers, grabbed him some painkillers for the morning, and then clipped Sumo on his lead and took him out for a midnight stroll.

Hank, he had learned, drank for a number of reasons. Previously those reasons had been iffy at best; to stop hurt, to cloud memories, to pass the lonely stretch of existence without those who had previously meant everything to him. Now he seemed also to drink for joy, for frustration, for companionship, and especially for habit. Tonight, Connor mused as he bent to clean up after Sumo’s mess on the pavement, Hank had probably been drinking to forget the horrors they’d seen that past week. If he could drink, Connor probably would have, too.

But Connor couldn’t drink, just like he couldn’t eat, or sleep, or perspire. So instead he walked. It provided a distraction in physical sense, and he found he could strip away the sensory input he was logging and focus simply on the movement of foot in front of foot, and the sights of the area at night before him. Sumo, despite being a hardy member of the St Bernard breed, could only walk for so long, and eventually they returned to the house. Had Connor not left the light in the hall on, he wouldn’t have seen it.

The box sat in the window, its lock interface dark, its top covered with a thin layer of dust and one or two dog hairs which always seemed – despite Hank and Connor’s best efforts – to get everywhere. Connor let Sumo off his lead and the dog lumbered over to his drinking bowl, lapping up water sloppily, his collar’s name tag clinking against the metal rim in an off-kilter rhythm. In the bedroom, the door ajar, Connor heard Hank shift and grunt in his sleep. He pulled the door closed with a quiet click, and then picked the box up.

Its interface lit up immediately at his touch: a keypad in white and a blinking cursor. Connor looked over his shoulder at Sumo, who had finally finished his drink and was dripping an unpleasant mixture of water and drool from his jowls as he made his way over to his bed. Then he looked back at the box. The temptation to open it was close to overwhelming. Would Hank want to be there, he wondered, when he opened it, when he slotted the components in, when he installed them? A part of him knew that he would, or would at least want to be there in the moments directly afterwards. Connor knew it wasn’t really comfortable for most humans to be reminded that androids were manufactured of a variety of parts that slotted together; it was a reminder of just how inhuman they were, despite their deceptively anthropic appearances. Perhaps, then, it wouldn’t be such a betrayal to do this on his own. Perhaps, in doing it alone, Connor would be saving Hank some of that very discomfort.

Connor noticed that his thirium pump was working a little harder than it usually did, and his breathing was a little more laboured. His fingers tapped restlessly against the sides of the box. He glanced at the bedroom door, focused in on hearing Hank’s droning snore, and then stepped towards the bathroom.

Inside was… messy. Connor didn’t go in here often, unless it was for the occasional shower: a necessity made less necessary by not sweating. Due to this, the room remained thoroughly Hank’s domain with clothes outside of the hamper, empty shampoo bottles collecting in one corner, and his post-it notes gathered around the mirror. There were new ones, Connor noticed, and he took a moment to read them one by one, black ink stark against neon paper in fluorescent light. _Another day another mouthful of toothpaste_. _Be kind to yourself. Taxes due on Sunday._ One stuck out, up at the top of the mirror, away from where toothpaste or water could hit it. _Fix your beard, he might put his fingers in it_. Connor felt a mixture of fondness and pride settle somewhere in the region of his abdominal cavity. He caught his own smile in the mirror, and then looked at the box in his hands.

He delicately perched himself on the side of the bathtub. The code flickered up in front of his eyes, easily recalled, and with steady but eager fingers, he typed it into the holographic keypad. With a small beep, the box opened, lid popping free, and Connor swung it to the side.

Three layers of packaging later, Connor revealed the chip with the back-up installation software in it, a small booklet with instructions, and the components. They weren’t much to look at – standard silver-grey and white silicone and plasteel, each nestled into their laser-cut niches. The phallus was as the online listing had described; average sized, though perhaps a little slender, especially compared to Hank’s cock. The cavity, this one supposed to plug into the rectal port for sexual stimulation, was longer, and Connor took that one out first, turning it around in his hands, and then probing a finger inside.

It was soft – softer than he was perhaps expecting. Even on the parts of his body that were supposed to be cartilage such as his ears and nose Connor always retained a hardness, a marker of his inorganic structure. Inside the cavity felt far closer to flesh. The online catalogue had mentioned a built-in prostate, and Connor searched around diligently until he felt he found it, a difference in texture appearing under his smooth fingertip. His research suggested that that would be an important sensor to take not of, and memorised its depth within the length of the component. He lay it on the side of the bathtub with a small clack and took out the phallus.

Surprisingly it swung, floppy and flexible in his hands along the length, the testes more solid but still with movement. Connor frowned at it, turning it around in his hands, the box abandoned on his lap. The connection for the port was easy enough to work out, but he still was a little unsure of how it would feel to equip. Was walking going to feel different? There was an 87% probability it would.

Feeling confident that neither component was damaged he placed both back into their niches and picked up the small holopad with the instructions.

_Hello, valued customer,_

_We at CyberLife would like to congratulate you on your purchase of biocomponents #2481p and #3419a. We hope these optional additions will improve your experience of personhood and your quality of life._

_Before you install your components, please take the time to read the information packages on how to use them in sexual situations. This should lower the probability of any accidents happening whilst exploring yourself or others in a sexual context._

Connor blinked down at the holopad, and then scrolled to the informational writing on the phallus.

“ _The human penis is a long-revered symbol of masculinity, power, and fertility. At CyberLife we have designed a penis-equivalent with that in mind. Long, strong, but carefully designed to be non-threatening, the #2481p is a sturdy but lightweight model guaranteed to excite your partner._

_To achieve an erection, simply divert the flow of Thirium 310 from non-vital systems to your new biocomponent. This will inflate the phallus. Physical stimulation of the phallus in a back and forth motion will also aid efforts to inflate. Should Error #72E4A occur the biocomponent has not been correctly connected. Please stop diverting Thirium immediately and isolate the biocomponent to prevent critical system failure._

_When engaging your partner for the first time, please be aware that your sensors may need adjusting. The average human copulation takes between fifteen and thirty minutes. Please calibrate your sensors so that ejaculation occurs within this timeframe, or to taste._

_With integrated pumps for realistic lubrication and ejaculation, the #2481p requires a re-fill of sexual lubricant every fortnight with average use. Please do not use any brand other than CyberLife’s Official Sexual Lubricant, as this could cause problems such as:_

_Blockages_  
Leakages  
Discomfort  
Itching and Burning Sensations  
Numbness  
Melting  
Slippery Joints”

The information on the rectal biocomponent was very much the same, with the same list of possible side effects from non-approved lubricant alternatives. Connor read through it carefully, cast the pad aside, placed the box delicately on the side of the sink, and started to undress himself. At Hank’s insistence he wore casual clothes around the house, (“ _You’re puttin’ me on edge with that fucking tie, Connor. Put on a goddamned t-shirt_.”) so it was no hassle to push and kick off his sweatpants and the unnecessary underwear beneath. Rectum first, Connor decided, and plucked it from the box.

It took him a moment to decide the best position for inserting the component, and he ended up with one foot braced on the end of the sink, legs sufficiently spread so that he could feel about himself with ease. With one hand he held the component and with the other he sought the release of the cover hiding the port. It took a small amount of probing and then there was the catch, and a click, and the plastic fell away in his hand. With a slight amount more fumbling – maybe he _should_ have waited until Hank was awake and willing – Connor managed to slide the component in place, hearing it click into place and seeing the notification pop up in front of his eyes as it began to install. And then there it was: his very own rectum.

Connor clenched experimentally. He could indeed feel the muscles contract. He placed a finger to the pucker of it – his skin had slipped around the entrance, already forming a tight sphincter, ridged under his exploring fingertips. He clenched again, this time feeling the hole react. It was an interesting sensation, but he felt no sexual stimulation. In fact, Connor was rather disappointed. He looked at the packaging on the side of the sink, hoping it would grant him answers. It did not. Unsatisfied, he took his foot off the sink and stood again, waiting for the installation to crawl up to 100%. He could hear Sumo resettling in the living room, sighing heavily. He could hear Hank roll over in his bed, re-settling with a small cough.

98%

99%

100%

Nothing happened.

Connor blinked. He clenched again. Nothing. He supposed that made sense, given the non-sexual function of the rectum in humans, but there was still a lingering disappointment. He hoped that the phallus would provide more joy.

This was easier as he could see what he was doing. A couple of fingers at the right points and his skin seeped back as his public mound clicked off, revealing the port beneath. He placed it in the sink with care. Who knows, perhaps he would find having the phallus attached all the time to be frustrating and would need to go back to the bare mound. _Ken doll,_ Hank had called it when one night he had asked to see Connor nude and Connor had complied.

Port exposed, Connor took up the phallus again, still finding its design strange, and hooked it into place. There was a click, and that installation timer came up again. Slowly his skin formed over the component, and Connor watched with curiosity as his programming accounted for the new parts, varying the texture of the skin, the colour, even growing him new hair. It took longer to install, the file size large, and Connor fumbled in the pocket of his sweatpants for his silver dollar to keep his hands busy.

Ten minutes passed, and Connor re-read the awkwardly worded instructions a second time as he waited.

Connor looked down at his still installing cock, hanging limply between his legs as he sat on the edge of the bathtub. He reached down and gently pulled up the head, peering at it as the skin finally formed around its shape. He was without foreskin, something that was unsurprising considering the popularity of circumcision in humans in the US, but still another interesting difference between him and Hank. Sensation on the phallus was patchy as the installation crept up to 74%, and Connor curiously explored his new organ, finding parts with sudden sensitivity besides patches that were still numb. It was strange, and eventually, once he had thoroughly explored it, he let it drop back down.

Would Hank like it?

Connor didn’t really know much about Hank’s sexual preferences. He was aware that Hank had previously been married to a woman, and he was also aware that Hank had a sexual attraction towards men, but the subject of what was and what not attractive had not come up between them. The one time they had visited the Eden Club Hank had been uncomfortable more than aroused, and his eyes hadn’t drawn to any of the androids with anything more than suspicion or perhaps slight disgust. If Hank had viewed any pornographic material, Connor did not know about it or its contents. Connor gazed down at himself, intact now, and frowned lightly.

It was very different to Hank’s.

The installation finally hit 100%. A small chime sounded in Connor’s CPU. On the side, the holopad chimed in union, a small ‘Congratulations!’ flashing over the hard-light screen. The boredom of waiting gave way to excitement, and Connor shifted in his seat, back straightening and feet planting a little firmer on the bathmat.

He looked at his cock, and then took it in hand, as he had with Hank’s weeks back. Hank, though, had been hard. In his own fist, Connor was warm but limp. He tried to divert thirium flow towards the biocomponent as the manual suggested, and felt it plump slightly in his hand, felt the sensation of it swelling, becoming more sensitive. The sensors there were already strong – stronger than Connor had really been expecting – and to have them increase the parameters of input had his cosmetic breathing become that little bit faster, his toes curling and uncurling on top of the bathmat.

With an air of experiment, Connor moved his hand over his new cock as he had Hank’s. The sensation was not as gratifying as he had hoped. It encouraged more thirium to the area and flooded his sensors with information, but didn’t give the same pleasure he saw written on Hank’s face as Connor had stroked him off. He wondered if something was wrong with the install and let go of himself. A quick diagnostic report denied such a possibility.

Maybe it would be better if he used his mouth, he thought, but Connor tried curling himself round and could not. His spine, or what passed as one, was not flexible enough, and the plates of his chest and abdomen jarred when he tried. In the cool, stark bathroom, Connor let out a slight sigh of frustration, and scowled at the limp silicone. The silicone did not react.

It would be better with Hank, he thought. Hank would know what to do, how to touch him. Just as he had calmed him down after Connor had worked himself into a frenzy with Hank’s cock in his mouth, he would know how to rile him up. How to make him stiff and wanting.

He thought of kissing him, of pressing their mouths together, of the way Hank had taught him how to slide their tongues over each other, of the sounds that had drawn from his partner – rough and deep. He recalled the sight, the feel, the smell of Hank’s cock leaking pre over his hand, the way he had thrusted his hips into Connor’s touch.

Between his own legs, Connor’s new appendage stiffened.

_Oh._

Tentatively, as if he would scare it away, Connor took his filling cock in his hands again and thought back to that night on the couch. He recalled the fullness of his mouth, the quiver of Hank’s stomach under his hands. He recalled Hank’s hand in his hair, tugging him up and pushing him down over his erection. In the present Connor ran his thumb over the head of his cock and surprised himself with its sensitivity, bucking into his hands with a gasp. He sought out his external sensors, dampening them a little, and then tried again. It was still sharp, still the wrong side of too much. So, Connor slid his hand down, gripped himself at the base, and stroked his way up. Better.

It didn’t take him long to learn what he liked. Long and solid strokes, a little tease at the tip. The spot just beneath the head remained deliciously sensitive for him, and he played with it until he felt the lubrication activate. His breathing was becoming heavy, and there was a heat over his body that couldn’t be explained by his environmental sensors. It was just as he had been that night with Hank.

Connor stilled and let go of his fully erect cock, watching curiously as it stood out on its own. A worrying doubt flickered through his mind. What if this didn’t give him what he needed? What if the error message that had cropped up that night was only one of many? What if Connor ended up in the same state he had that night, too overwhelmed to properly function, frightened by his own body’s reaction to his desires? Hank wasn’t there to comfort him this time, and Connor knew he’d not appreciate being woken up in the middle of the night because his partner had teased himself into an aroused panic.

He’d have to stop for the night. He knew that it would take time for the excitement to ease, for his thirium to no longer flush the new appendage. He’d have plenty to do in the mean-time. Connor had been working on a pet project in the garage, and on nights where laying next to Hank felt awkward – after arguments, or when Hank was drunk, or on nights when Connor simply wanted to have space to himself – he worked on that. He steadfastly ignored his new component, cleared away his previous parts and the packaging, pulled on his abandoned clothes, and headed out.

 

*

 

The next morning Hank woke to an empty bed and a splitting headache. Connor heard him wake up – the change in his breathing and of his heartbeat were things he was tuned into now – and he waited in the kitchen with a fresh brewed cup of coffee. Hank, true to habit, shuffled into the bathroom first. Connor wondered if he would notice the black box balanced on the back lip of the sink, if he would remember what it was, what it had had in it. When Hank slumped his way into the kitchen, sitting at the table with a great sigh, and said nothing, Connor decided he hadn’t. He pushed the coffee over the wooden top in Hank’s direction.

“Thanks,” Hank grumbled, sounding like half of him was still asleep and the rest of him wished it was.

“Of course,” Connor replied. “How are you feeling? Did you take the paracetamol I left out for you?”

Hank shook his head, coffee mug at his lips silencing him. He pulled a slightly sour face at the taste but said nothing.

“I will fetch them, then,” Connor said, standing, and wondered if Hank could see the difference in the way he stood and walked. But again Hank said nothing, just closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands. Without disturbing him, Connor made his way into the bedroom, noting the messy bed, the slightly stale air. He opened the window before grabbing the pills on the bedside table and took them back to the kitchen.

Hank barely moved when Connor placed them on the table beside him, but he did eventually pick them up with slightly clumsy and sleep-weak fingers and feed them into his mouth, swallowing them down with a gulp of coffee. Connor sat and looked him over, trying not to look like he was scanning even though he was. Hank was suffering the common side-effects of a hangover, including the easily-treatable dehydration, and a churning, empty stomach.

“I should make you breakfast,” he started, but Hank waved a hand.

“Just… let me stew in it for a moment, alright? I made my bed…” Hank grumbled. Connor was about to point out that actually the bed was not made and the sheets needed changing, but Hank spoke up again. “That box in the bathroom…” Hank peeked open one red-rimmed eye, flicking it down to where he approximated Connor’s crotch would be were the table not in the way, “You install your new… things?”

Connor flushed with excitement and shifted in his seat, nodding. “I thought it would be prudent to install them during what would otherwise be ‘wasted hours’,” he said earnestly, “I also thought it would be a good idea to check that they were operational.”

Hank gave him a look, assessing, slightly surprised. “And are they operational?” he asked, trying to sound casual, and then hiding his face behind his mug of coffee.

Connor flattened his lips into a thoughtful line. “I did not test them to their full abilities,” he said carefully, “I was aware that, should something go wrong as they did after I fellated you-” Hank rolled his eyes, swallowing his hot coffee too fast and coughing as some trickled into his airway, “-that I would not have you there to calm me down.”

Hank coughed loudly a few more times, a particularly unpleasant expression on his face when he stopped, sweating slightly, his face looking a bit pale. A hangover, Connor noted, and wondered if Hank would make it to the toilet in time if he was going to vomit. “I’m gonna be honest, Connor, I have no idea what you’re trying to say. Did you or did you not jack off in the bathroom?”

Connor took a moment to check the slang, LED blinking yellow before returning to a pleasant blue. “I did not jack _off_ , but I did manage to gain and hold a full erection.”

Hank didn’t react much, finally breathing normally again, his face less pinched as he sat back in his chair.

“I can…” _show you_ , Connor was going to say, his fingers already at the chord of his sweatpants as he stood, going to push them and his underwear down, going to show it off to Hank, _excited_ to share it-

“What? No!” Hank waved his hands wildly in the air, looking away. “Jeeze, Connor, not at the kitchen table.”

Connor blinked. Yes, he supposed that wasn’t really the most appropriate of places. “The sofa, then?” he suggested. It was, after all, the first place they had done anything similar. The first place Connor had seen Hank’s in a sexual situation.

Hank sighed, “Connor, I’ve got a splitting headache, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to throw up in the next five minutes. Let’s perhaps just _not_.”

Connor dropped his hands from the waist of his trousers. Something sick and hot clenched in his chest and gut, something he didn’t quite have a name for, yet. “Right,” he said, and looked away from Hank where he slumped in his chair, unable to look at him whilst this feeling ran rampant with his physicality, his processor, his mind. Of course not now, what a foolish thing to suggest, what an oversight to make. “I’ll make you some toast.”

“Hey,” Hank’s voice was soft again, and Connor darted a look at him from the corner of his eyes. “Hey, c’mere.” He reached out one hand, beckoning Connor close. Connor didn’t move for a moment. “Come on,” Hank said again, gesturing a little stronger, and Connor took the couple of steps between them. Hank took his hand in his, pulling him even closer and then down. “I’m sorry, I feel like shit warmed over,” he said, and this close to him Connor could analyse his breath – _coffee, alcohol, stomach acid, garlic, and onions_. “Give me a few hours to feel human again and I’ll gladly see your cock.”

That sick feeling loosened its hold on Connor, and he nodded, and pressed a small kiss to Hank’s forehead. “I’ll make you some toast,” he said again, and pulled away.

Hank did throw up in the next five minutes, his churning stomach turned over by the smell of slightly burnt toast and the coffee already inside of him. He drank water, took more paracetamol, and nibbled on the toast Connor lay out for him whilst reading the morning news, slowly regaining colour in his cheeks. After a while he excused himself to shower and returned a good half an hour later looking far better and seeming much happier. Despite Connor’s hopes, Hank still didn’t ask to see him or touch him, but instead whistled at Sumo, calling him over to put him on his lead.

“I’m taking Sumo out for a walk. I don’t know how far we’ll get with me feeling like shit, but the fresh air should do me good,” Hank explained, shrugging on a coat. “It shouldn’t be anything more than an hour, his walker’s still coming at two.”

Connor nodded, putting on a smile. “Would you like a more substantial breakfast waiting for you when you return?” he asked, and Hank looked uncomfortable again, that pinched look returning.

“Uh, no. Food’s still not… not something I can manage.” He swallowed thickly, and then opened the door, pocketing his keys. “I’ll see you later.” And then he was gone.

Connor stood a little dumbly in the middle of the living room. He didn’t even have Sumo to look to for advice.

Hank returned an hour later, but even then he seemed unwilling to do much more than make conversation with Connor, and ended up going back to bed only two hours after he had left it. Connor, unsure of what else to do with his time, decided to join him, and lay there as Hank curled his way around him in his sleep, slowly slipping into Stasis as he tried not to overthink or worry as to why Hank wasn’t jumping on the opportunity.

 

*

 

Connor ‘woke’ to Hank mumbling against his shoulder. It was a quick thing to shake off stasis, not like waking up from sleep at all. Hank had found it disconcerting the first couple-dozen times, being half-asleep as Connor easily zipped out of the bed and started the day. Likewise, Connor had found it disconcerting that Hank took so long to wake, not used to the limitations of humanity.

Hank was quite obviously more than half-awake, his nap obviously having done him plenty of good. He kissed at Connor’s neck, and Connor knew that his LED gave away that he was no longer in Stasis.

“Hank,” Connor said, turning onto his back towards him. Hank stopped him, a solid weight at his back, and kept his face just out of sight.

“I can’t give you what you want right now,” Hank mumbled, but a hand of his made a sure progression down Connor’s front, “but I can give you a taste. _If_ you promise not to-” he struggled a moment, and Connor could hear him opening and closing his mouth as he thought of the right words, “promise to keep your eyes closed.”

Connor’s LED lit up yellow, and Hank waited, his hand still on Connor’s abdomen. Then Connor nodded, LED blue again, and his eyes slid shut. He could feel Hank untense at his back, his gut pushing outwards, and the hand continued its progression. Down over the flat of his gut, over the outside of his sweats. Hank could obviously feel the new component, puffing out a small breath as he wrapped his hand half around it through the fabric and rubbed.

It hadn’t felt like that when Connor had done it to himself. Without the additional input from his hand, the sensation felt purer, clearer in his mind. Connor pressed himself into it, not caring to stop the small sound that fell from his lips. Hank’s lips were on his neck again, the wiry hair of his beard lighting up the liquid silicone’s sensors before the softness of his lips soothed them. Hank’s hand kept rubbing over Connor’s cock. The feeling was dampened by the fabric between them, but it was enough to start directing a heavier flow of Thirium to the component. Connor felt himself growing under the touch, his artificial breathing getting heavier. It echoed in Hank’s own.

Connor wanted to look at Hank, wanted to look at his face, wanted to see Hank’s eyes on him. But he knew Hank would stop if he did, so he kept his eyes closed and tangled his fidgeting fingers in the bedsheets and let out a soft whine.

“Sensitive?” Hank asked, his voice sleep-deep and low.

“I have turned down the sensitivity of my sensors, but… yes.”

Hank made a thoughtful sound, and then he was pulling at the draw-string of Connor’s trousers, untying the perfect knot with a little difficulty ,and then shoving at the waist of them. “Come on, hips up.”

Connor did as he was asked, taking a hand from the sheets to help push everything down, Hank’s fingers dragging over his glutes as he tugged.

“I have installed more than just a phallus,” Connor said, pushing his arse back into Hank’s gut suggestively.

Hank gave an exasperated sigh. “Shit, Connor, we need to work on your dirty talk,” he huffed. “Let’s just focus on this for now, huh?” With Connor bare, Hank could easily find his cock, thick and rigid where it sprung from his body. Modest in its size, Hank could almost cover it entirely with one hand, only the head poking out of his fist, which Hank explored blindly with his fingers.

“My software designed me to appear circumcised,” Connor explained, deciding that was probably what caught Hank’s attention. Behind him, Hank gave a grunt of acknowledgement, wrapped his fist back around Connor’s cock, and gave him a long, languid stroke. Up and down, his hand loose, but squeezing at the base. Connor, hit by a hundred or more modes of sensory input, let out a sound that must have been a moan, brow furrowing.

“You got any form of lubrication?” Hank asked, and that wasn’t just sleep-roughness now. Connor knew how Hank sounded when aroused – had memorised it, replayed it, learned it inside out.

“I can create approximately five millilitres of lubricant.”

Hank grunted, and took his hand from Connor’s cock, who whined rather pitifully at the loss. “Hang on, hang on,” he griped, and Connor heard him wetly lick his palm and then take his hand back under the covers to wrap back around him.

If Connor thought that it had been good before, then this was amazing. Hank’s hand ( _big, hot, heavy_ ) glided over him, the wrinkles of his palm and fingers making the sensation interesting and varied. He bucked into Hank’s touch, gasping.

“Hank!”

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Hank said, and then his tongue was on Connor’s neck and it was like it had been the first time – too many notifications, too much information, too many things he already knew. He let out a garbled sound as Hank continued his steady pace; up and down, the frenulum between his thumb and forefinger catching on the flared rim of Connor’s glans and making him jump each time.

Connor knew he was making sounds, was being noisy, but Hank’s hand on his cock was acting like a virus in his vocal processor, like all the things he’d usually keep to himself were spilling out and he could do nothing to stop it.

“Hank, please,” he was saying. “Hank, more, faster. Hank, put your tongue on me. Kiss me, Hank, please.”

And Hank did, shifting up to reach his mouth, licking into it. As he moved Connor could smell how he had sweated in the night, how he was sweating now, heavy with arousal and effort. He could feel it slick on Hank’s cheeks, run down from his forehead. Could smell how it mingled with the oils of his scalp. He was so present, so there, and Connor wanted so so desperately to see him.

Notifications were firing off now, floating into his vision even as his eyes were shut and all was dark. He felt that something was coming, some build-up reaching its peak, and he reached behind him to clutch at what he could of his partner, moaning into his mouth. There was slick coming from him now, dripping free with no foreskin to hold it, gathering in Hank’s palm. The thought of what it would be like to have Hank’s mouth on him crossed his mind and Connor bucked wildly, incensed just by the image of it.

Hank was pausing, too hot, sweating heavily now – Connor could feel the dampness of Hank’s sleepshirt where it pressed against his back. He shifted, letting go of Connor’s length to throw back the covers. That fresh sweat smell hit Connor again and he groaned, inhaling, rolling onto his back and grasping at Hank with both hands.

“Okay, okay, come on,” Hank said, words soothing but voice riling Connor up. He rubbed his face over the pillow, mouth open, panting heavily, and let out a loud groan into the space between them as Hank took Connor’s cock again in his hand, teasing over the head with his thumb.

“Hank, I want to see you, please,” Connor begged, voice thick with want. “I want to look at you as I c-c-c-come.” His voice glitched, separating and stuttering before coming together again. In Hank’s hand Connor cock twitched.

For a moment Hank was silent, only his breathing, his heat, his smell and the relentless movement of his hand letting Connor know he was there. Then something changed. “Yeah, okay,” he said, and Connor’s eyes flew open immediately, falling on Hank’s flushed, damp face, on his lust-blown eyes, on his lips, red where he’d bitten them.

He tipped, overwhelmed, and came with what can only be described as a wail, voice jumping as it glitched, repeating and doubling. An artificial spend shot out of Connor’s cock, and Hank pulled his eyes from Connor’s face down to it as it covered his partner’s shirt, stomach, and Hank’s hand.

“Fuck,” Hank cursed, and Connor moaned in agreement, his climax sweeping through him, making him drowsy and sated. He moved a hand to Hank’s front, between his legs, grabbing at him through his boxers.

Hank was limp.

The sick, hot feeling from earlier came back, and Connor let go like he’d been electrocuted, LED spinning yellow.

“It’s not like that,” Hank said quickly, noticing Connor’s shock. His hand was still around his partner’s cock, and he let go, hand shiny and wet with lube. There was something troubled in Hank’s expression, and Connor fought off the shock and hurt as best as he could in the face of it. “I’m… I’m not young, Connor. You know that.”

 _Oh_ , Connor thought, a lot of things falling into place.

“You are experiencing low self-esteem,” he stated, voice no longer glitching but sounding slightly strained.

Hank pulled a face, half-laughing, “Jesus fuck Connor, I mean, yeah, but-” he wiped his hand on his t-shirt and slumped onto his back, looking up at the ceiling. “I can’t get it up sometimes, okay?” _Defensive_. “I’m over fifty. I’ve been drinking for the past three years straight. Didn’t think I’d ever have to use the thing again, so…” he gestured down to his crotch, shrugged, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Beside him, Connor half sat-up, leaning on one arm and turning to better see Hank. His come slid viscously down his stomach towards the sheets. He would do laundry after this. “Hank,” he said, and put one hand on his partner’s crossed arms, “I don’t mind.”

Hank cut an angry and disbelieving look at Connor.

“Truly,” he insisted, and tilted his head, looking at Hank earnestly through his eyelashes. “I would like to bring you pleasure when the both of us are able, but I do not feel it is a requirement in our relationship.”

Hank’s eyes scattered over Connor’s face, sticking once or twice on his LED, a calm blue. “Keep talkin’,” he said.

“I enjoy being intimate with you in ways that are more than sexual. I like working with you, I like living with you,” Hank sighed, and Connor knew that these two things were markers of friendship over romance. “I also enjoy sleeping beside you, kissing you, walking Sumo together.”

Hank still didn’t look convinced, but the muscles of his arms relaxed a little.

“Hank my interest in you goes beyond the simply physical. Though I do find your physicality very attractive.” Connor winked, gaining a huff of laughter from his partner, the mattress jumping with it.

“My physicality, eh?” Hank asked, disbelieving. _Low self-esteem_.

“Yes, for example your lips, and your beard, your arms and your… hands.” Connor swallowed, his throat bobbing, as he eyed the still-slick hand Hank had previously had on him.

Hank looked at his own hands, pulling his arms from their crossed position. Moving them revealed the soaked patches of his shirt around his pits, and a fresh smell wafted out from them. “And my smell of sweat?” Hank asked, bitterness and wariness in his tone. Connor searched his database for where he had heard that phrase before. _Ah_ , yes, the blue haired TRACI model.

“Actually,” Connor admitted, his voice dropping low and shy, “I find that I like it very much.”

Hank looked disbelieving, placing his hands back on his stomach. “U _huh_.”

“It is a reminder of your bodily presence, and an interesting anomaly between the two of us,” Connor elaborated, placing a hand over one of Hank’s and shuffling closer. “I like it, Hank.”

Hank was quiet for a moment, and then he sniffed, nodding. “Yeah that does seem the weird sort of thing you’d be into,” he sighed, and Connor felt victorious. He curled his fingers around into the palm of Hank’s hand and leant down to kiss him sweetly on the lips. Hank sighed into it, nose pushed into Connor’s cheek, and when the other pulled back he was smiling ever so slightly.

“How are you feeling?” he asked Connor, who took a moment to check on himself, LED whirring as he did.

“Good,” Connor replied, that not being the exact wording his CPU provided but far more appropriate than its mechanical tone.

“That thing with your voice, it happened last time, too. It gonna happen again?”

Ah yes, the vocal glitching. “I don’t know. Evidence currently suggests that it will, but I do not have enough data to hypothesize with any accuracy at this time,” Connor said, laying his head on Hank’s shoulder as he did. It felt good to be close to him, his systems running at a slightly sluggish pace, the software designed for this sort of encounter filling him with good signals – the type he had used to feel when he thought he had achieved an objective.

Hank laughed again, a short thing that shook his whole body with the effort of it. “’That your way of saying you wanna go again?”

It hadn’t been, but Connor would not say no to a repeat experience. Hank, uncomfortable with how sticky the bedsheets were becoming, shoved the both of them over the hall and into the shower where Connor’s broken moans echoed loudly against the tiles.

 


	2. Chapter 2

They passed the day doing little, Hank still feeling slightly green around the gills, and Connor replaying, recategorizing, remembering the feel of Hank touching him, of his climaxes, and the way Hank’s eyes went wild as Connor moaned. He combed the vid-memories like they were crime scenes, picking up new evidence of Hank’s excitement with each viewing, and a multitude more of Hank’s low self-image. In the shower Connor had grasped at Hank’s sides and back as he spiralled ever closer to his orgasm, and Hank, uncomfortable with the plentiful flesh there, had paused, taken Connor’s hands, and put them in his hair instead. In their bed, Connor realised now that Hank had asked him to keep his eyes closed not to heighten any physical sensation, but because he couldn’t stand being looked at; not in that context, not then.

It was upsetting to realise. Connor might not have felt such disapproval towards his own form, but he knew from his programming that such issues caused great trouble for those experiencing them. People experiencing dysmorphia were far less likely to live fulfilling lives, often overwhelmed by anxiety about the way in which their physicality would be experienced and viewed by others. They were likely to feel depressed, and self-destructive behaviour was more common in someone who disliked their body than someone who was confident in it.

But beyond that, Connor just could not understand or agree. Hank – amazing, funny, strong, _good_ Hank – looked stunning to him. From his strong nose, his clear eyes, the haphazard wave of his hair (still sandy in some places, like just behind his ears, and in the wild curls at the nape of his neck), to his broad shoulders, his paunched stomach, his thighs, his hands… Connor found him greatly attractive.

He had wanted to touch long before he – they – realised why. Connor had wanted to put a hand on Hank’s back, on his shoulder, his elbow. He had wanted Hank to share with him the easy intimacy that Connor knew existed between people, between _friends_. When finally the dam of tension between them broke, Connor had wanted to kiss, wanted to hold, wanted desperately to connect, to link-up like he would with another android. He’d wanted to hold Hank in his hand, his mouth, wanted to taste him, analyse him, know him from his base components to his full form.

Now that more options were available, Connor wanted to fuck him. Wanted to spread him open on his fingers, on his tongue, on his newly-equipped phallus. He wanted to learn Hank inside-out, make him feel as good as Connor felt.

But Connor knew that such things couldn’t be rushed. He knew that he had to approach slowly, that change took time for most people, that trust had to be gained before he could diffuse the situation. Still, the irrational part of him that was growing since he had overcome his original programming wanted nothing more than to grab Hank close, to hold him tight, to _make_ him love himself.

He settled for sitting beside Hank on the couch that evening as he half-watched a game and half browsed the internet, one arm around Hank’s shoulders and one hand on the swell of his gut, thumb grazing the spot where the tattoo on his chest ended.

  
  


*

  
  


“You don’t have to wait for me to initiate something, you know,” Hank said Saturday morning as they lay in their bed. He was sleepy, soft. The sunlight struggling through the blinds turned the room golden-brown, the only other light being Connor’s LED; a cool and calm blue glowing from his temple. Connor had been out of stasis for over an hour and had lay stock still as Hank hardened in his sleep, the progression of his cock obvious against the small of Connor’s back. He knew about the phenomenon of ‘morning wood’, but he didn’t know about the etiquette surrounding it. So, he had lain there, growing stiffer himself at the soft noises Hank made behind him in his sleep, and at the press of his insistent flesh.

When Hank had awoken it had been slowly, and he had blearily begun rutting against Connor’s backside before realising and waking with a quick inhale and a mumbled _oh, fuck, sorry_. Now he lay on his back and Connor turned towards him, his own cock heavy and hard where it prodded against Hank’s hip.

“I want to make sure I have your full consent before I do anything that might be considered sexual,” Connor replied, because he did. It had taken a good three weeks to start kissing Hank without asking first. Three weeks of Hank laughing, and scoffing, and nodding dark-eyed, or sometimes shaking his head, looking over his shoulder, his eyes catching someone else’s stare at Connor’s LED.

“If you start something I don’t want, I’ll tell you so,” Hank said, voice slow and clear and particular. Connor didn’t even nod, just moved over and kissed him.

Hank was sleepy, soft, and his kisses were languid this time. Slow. Connor ran a hand down one of Hank’s arms; from the muscle of a bicep, to his squared elbow, to the weighty forearm, and then over the back of his hand, wide and rough. Under it he could feel the rise and fall of Hank’s stomach with each breath, and before Hank could catch Connor’s fingers they were slipping away, squirming under his shirt, and spreading wide over Hank’s sleep-warm and furred belly.

“My nipple,” Hank mumbled into their kiss, voice slurred against Connor’s lips.

“What?” Connor asked, because he never thought he’d hear that word from Hank. He stored it away, learning the way Hank’s tongue had formed it, feeling it with his own.

“Shit, you heard me,” Hank said, a touch of frustration in the humour of his voice, “pinch my nipples. Gently.”

Connor moved his hand over the swell of Hank’s gut and to his chest, his partner’s t-shirt catching on his elbow and tugging up. Connor knew that his hand was over the tattoo Hank had there and he traced its lines blindly, its placement memorised with perfect accuracy. Then he found his way to one of Hank’s nipples. He pinched it, gently, like Hank had said to, but it was obviously not what he’d meant as all it pulled from Hank was a warm chuckle.

“Like this,” he said, and then his hands were on Connor, sliding over his stomach, pushing up the shirt he’d worn to bed. He found one of the identical cosmetic nipples on Connor’s chest and rolled it between his fingers, and Connor knew Hank was delighted from the smile that formed as Connor gasped against him. He’d not known he had sensors there with such high sensitivity.

With the accuracy only an android could have, Connor recreated the movement with his own hand, noting the stuttered sigh from Hank’s lips, the shift of his hips against the bed.

With sudden impatience, Connor pulled back, sitting on his heels and pulling off his shirt. Hank’s steady hands found his sides, his ribs, then up towards his armpits, pulling him down on top of his partner. He shifted his legs, nudged, and then Connor was between them and they were kissing again, cock pressing alongside Hank’s.

Connor remembered their time on the couch, Hank’s shift and grind against his backside, and copied that motion with wonderful results. Beneath him Hank let out a deep groan, his own hips rocking up to meet Connor’s. His sensors recognised the friction against his arousal, firing off a number of pleasure signals that had Connor shivering. The movement was surprisingly instinctual, and Connor repeated it over and over, rocking against Hank, grinding his cock into the soft space between thigh and crotch.

Hank’s hands were on his back, hot, fingers digging into his skin, their chests pressed together – that damned shirt was in the way, though, and Connor wanted it gone, wanted their clothes gone, wanted nothing more than bodies and skin. His sensors lit up, an urgency in his system now, and he pushed at Hank’s shirt, dragging it up between them, though it stuck at Hank’s back and the bed. Hank was chuckling again, and then pulling back and pushing at Connor’s hands.

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, fingers at the hem of his shirt, back lifting off the mattress and rubbing their cocks together. Hank paused, looking over his arms at Connor, a disquiet in his expression. “You sure?” he asked, and his fingers twisted in the fabric nervously.

Connor placed one hand on the exposed jut of Hank’s stomach. “Yes,” he said, voice quick with it, “I want you.”

Hank let out a soft groan, already pulling the shirt up and over his head. “Yeah,” he said, muffled, “Shit, c’mon.”

Hank’s chest was broad, thick, and whilst a little flabby now it only took one look to tell that it had been well muscled once. Connor ran a hand up through the hair on Hank’s stomach ( _rough, tickling, lighting up the sensors on his skin_ ) and over to a nipple, rolling it between his fingers again. Hank, shirt thrown off, was pushing at Connor’s underwear next, working it down with his thumbs.

“Connor, come on, help out,” he said, voice strained, and Connor abandoned his work to kneel up and excitedly push everything down to his knees. Hank awkwardly shoved his own boxers off his hips, and then they shuffled for a bit, Hank’s not-so-flexible hips making the transition from partially clothed to naked not-so-smooth.

Hank was reaching out for Connor, but he didn’t manage to get far. Before he could wrap a hand around him Connor had slipped out of reach, his lips on Hank’s chest, his stomach. Hank threaded his fingers through Connor’s hair at the back of his head, and gently guided him up towards his chest again.

Disappointment sucked some of the excitement out of Connor’s kisses. Whilst he objectively understood Hank’s reasons behind his insecurities, he still disagreed with them entirely. He tugged himself away from Hank’s hand and down, down, past his gut and to his cock. He’d not been allowed this pleasure since their first time, and Connor wanted it, wanted to know what it was like to swallow Hank’s come and then be able to act on the desire it shot through him.

“Connor,” Hank said, voice caught in a moan, as Connor took his partner’s thick full cock in his hand and gave it a couple of encouraging strokes. Cowper’s fluid gathered at the tip, and he ducked his head to taste it, tongue dipping into the foreskin – _glycoproteins, urea, fructose, amino acids_. Hank made a sound like he’d been punched, and Connor looked up at him, tongue still tasting, catching Hank’s slack face before he let his head fall back on the pillows with a soft thump. “Fuck me,” Hank breathed.

“That is rather the point of this exercise,” Connor quipped cheekily, trying to keep the smile from his face and Hank reached down, hand on Connor’s head, and pushed him back to his cock.

“Shut it,” he grumbled, but Connor could hear the grin on his face, the way it morphed his voice into something warm. He could have said something back, something teasing, but he was full of want, hard against the bedsheets and his stomach, so instead he filled his mouth with Hank’s cock and groaned around it.

 _Glycoproteins, urea, fructose, amino acids, sodium, water, lactic acid, uric acid, creatinine_.

Connor remembered to activate his saliva-substitute glands, lubricant welling up under his tongue then dripping forwards and around Hank’s length in his mouth. Hank’s hand in his hair tensed, fingernails scraping against the plate of his skull. More of his precome drooled into Connor’s mouth, a fresh peal of information filling his HUD, and Connor heard his name half-grunted into the still air.

Up and down, that was it. Connor sank down on Hank’s cock easily, no gag reflex, no need to breathe, and then pulled back up, lips a tight seal to keep any lubricant from escaping. Hank twitched his hips to meet him on the next downwards motion, cockhead bumping over the unnaturally smooth roof of his mouth.

“Connor, your tongue,” Hank said, voice rough, and Connor, thinking it must be positioned wrong, made to pull back. “No,” Hanks hand on his head stilled him, “ _Use_ your tongue.”

With very little idea of how exactly to do that, Connor set about experimenting to see what Hank liked. He rubbed his tongue in short back-and-forths as he sank down and back up, and that gained a deep noise from Hank’s throat. He circled the head with it, following the line of Hank’s foreskin, and that brought out longing sighs. He curled it round the underside of Hank as he sank down, sucking as he went, and that earned him something akin to a shout.

Hank’s fingers had fumbled down from his scalp to his ear, stroking along the finely shaped curve of it. Connor shuddered, eyes rolling back. “That’s it,” Hank said, voice husky as his thumb rubbed his earlobe, “Suck me like that.”

Connor groaned around the flesh in his mouth, deep enough that the vibrations could be felt over his tongue, and Hank’s fingers tightened on his earlobe, pinching. He continued to bob his head, tongue mapping out the texture of Hank’s cock, listening to the sounds he made as he climbed to completion. Each pull up was accompanied by a filthy, wet slurping noise now, and Connor felt Hank’s heart rate jump up to hear it.

Against the bedsheets, Connor was leaking, his hips making little aborted movements as they sought out some form of friction. Each sound Hank made was shooting through him, making him more desperate than the last.

So, this was what it was like to bring Hank pleasure and feel pleasure himself. Before he could help himself, Connor thought of Hank buried inside of him, thrusting into him, fucking him, and he felt himself get wet. He whined, and Hank cursed, his fingers slipping further to Connor’s cheek where he could just about feel the working of his tongue and jaw, and his own cock sliding in and out of that hot wet mouth.

“Connor, I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that.”

Hank’s voice was rough, strained, breathless. Connor moaned, sinking further down in reply, desperate for Hank to come, to fill up his mouth with his spend. He felt it as Hank’s cockhead slipped into the beginning of the connector for his cosmetic lungs, nudging against the speaker for his voice. He made a rumbling, deep noise, and heard Hank shout in response at the vibration right on his tip. His hand shot back to Connor’s hair, pulling hard in a way that surely would have torn some out and been painful has he been human. As it was, Connor just did it again, tongue trying its best to stimulate the rest of Hank’s shaft.

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come, Connor!” Hank was shouting, and Connor pulled up, knowing it would not be good for semen to get into his lungs or speaker, sucking on Hank as best as he could.

There was a beat, and then Hank yelled, his spend rushing thick into Connor’s mouth – _fructose, testosterone, citric acid, amino acids, potassium, prostaglandins, sperm_ – Connor moaned loudly, hands grabbing at Hank’s tense thighs as he rode out the high, his own cock insistent between his legs. An error message popped up on his HUD. _Biocomponent #2481p in need of attention_.

Hank’s hand relaxed in his hair, petting it now, combing it messily. Connor kept his come in his mouth, savouring it, eyes closed, a slowly softening cock still between his lips. Hank tapped him on the scalp.

“Hey, c’mere, let me kiss you.”

Connor pulled off of Hank with a slick sound, the man’s spent cock falling against his stomach, and swallowed the come in his mouth with a sigh. Hank was cupping his jaw now, could feel the movement of Connor’s throat, and urged him up. His heart rate increased just a little at the bob of Connor’s Adams Apple.

“You don’t have to do that, you know?” he said, breathless, cupping Connor’s face in both hands as he crawled up the bed, bringing him in for a deep kiss.

Hank’s tongue searched his mouth, finding the traces of his taste, wiping away the texture of his cock with his rough taste buds.

“I want to,” Connor replied, his own breathing laboured when they broke apart. “I like the taste of you.”

Hank flushed, mouth opening to say something, but he was stopped by Connor’s desperate keen. His eyes darted down between them where Connor’s cock stood proudly from him body. Connor looked too, saw the swell of Hank’s soft stomach, and braced his hands on Hank’s chest as he threw a leg over Hank’s hip and ground down into that plentiful flesh.

“Uh,” Hank watched as Connor’s cock glided over his stomach, hot and slick with his own lubricant. The hair on Hank’s gut tickled over his cockhead, making his head swim, making him gasp. Connor groaned, his hands grabbing, his eyes stuttering over Hank’s broad chest, his thick stomach, his muscled arms, his flushed face and bite-red lips.

“W-wait,” Hank said, sounding a mixture of unsure, fucked out, and turned on, “I’ve got an idea.”

He twisted, arm reaching for the bedside table, unseating Connor in the process who made a sound of protest. Hank’s back was freckled and sun-damaged from summers without a shirt, and now bared the red-line imprint of the rumpled sheets beneath him. Connor, unable to keep his hands to himself, desperate to get some sort of relief from the overwhelming sense of need, traced them with a finger.

“Here,” Hank finally managed to pull a pump-head bottle from the bedside drawer – a water-based lubricant ( _water, glycerine, propylene glycol, cellulose gum…_ ), “Back up, give me some space.”

Connor had an idea where this was going, and he grabbed his cock as another error message popped up, brought on by a surge of arousal. “Oh, fuck-k,” he whispered to himself, voice beginning to glitch as he shuffled back. But Hank didn’t do as Connor expected, pumping out lubricant and then, rather then spreading it over his fingers and taking them to his entrance, smearing it on the inside of his thigh.

Some confusion must have shown on his face alongside his yellow LED, because Hank chuckled slightly self-depreciatingly. “Yeah, I’m not exactly prepared for that, Connor,” he sighed, lubing up his other thigh now and then rubbing them together. They slid easily, and Hank turned onto his side, his thighs pressed together, ankles crossing. “C’mon,” he said, reaching out a hand towards Connor’s cock.

Connor let Hank take him and pull him forwards, knees tangling on the loosened sheets so he almost tripped. He guided Connor’s cock to his slicked thighs, urging him on. Eagerly, Connor thrust forwards, his length sliding easily between Hank’s thighs and into the warm wet space between. He groaned, letting out a curse, and then bit at his lips. It was hot, and tight, and just what he needed. Hank curled his arms around his upper body, looking small and cramped. Suddenly it was wrong.

“Wait, no.” Connor pulled out of that slick space, hands on Hank’s hip and knee. Hank was looking confused, even a little hurt. “Not like that, on your back,” Connor urged, pushing at Hank to lie back, straddling the bulk of his thighs.

Hank did as he was asked to, laying on his back with his legs stretched out, ankles crossed and knees locked, thighs tight together. “Like this?” he asked, unsure, and Connor nodded, his hair a mess, his breathing heavy. He lay over Hank, one arm supporting his weight by Hank’s head, the other guiding him back into that slick, tight space with a gasp and a sigh. Hank’s hands went to his back, cool against Connor’s overheated skin, holding him as Connor shivered, settling, and began to rock back and forth.

“Hank,” he whined a little brokenly, eyes shut again, LED yellow, yellow, yellow as his brows drew up and he rutted into that space. “Oh, fuck, please talk to me.” He could smell the fresh sweat gathered at Hank’s neck and leant down to place his tongue against it – _water and sodium and lactic acid_.

Hank let out a weak groan, hands sweeping over Connor’s back to his arse, palming the perfectly formed glutes. “You want me to tell you you’re doin’ good?” he said, voice right in Connor’s ear. Connor nodded enthusiastically, anything to keep that voice going. His hips snapped against Hank’s thighs in a quick, shallow rhythm. “Yeah? You want me to tell you how fucking great it felt to have your mouth on my cock?”

Connor let out a pathetic sound, his cock twitching, and one of Hank’s fingers slid down the cleft of his behind, searching out the pucker of his entrance.

“Ha-ank!” he yelped, voice breaking as Hank rubbed over Connor’s slick entrance.

“This good?” Hank asked, voice husky, and Connor nodded enthusiastically.

“Please, please,” he muttered, a small litany until Hank had mercy and slid his finger inside, one knuckle, two knuckle, to the root. It was thick, thicker than Connor’s fingers, and he’d not yet tried when the component was installed. A garbled sound came from Connor’s speakers and his eyes rolled in his head, hands twisting in the pillow under Hank’s head.

“Shit, you’re so hot and wet,” Hank said, genuine surprise in his voice, and Connor grinded into his thighs. “Is this what you want, for me to finger you open, to fuck you?”

Connor’s voice split, completely mangled and garbled now, static with broken vowel sounds.

“Hey, let me know you’re okay, nod or something,” Hank said, worried now, trying to move and see Connor’s face. Connor quickly fumbled down one of Hank’s arms and grabbed the hand not busy fingering him, squeezing it reassuringly as he nodded.

“Shit, good, okay,” Hank sighed, and sunk his finger deep again, searching for the pressure plate Connor knew was in there. “Fuck, or maybe you want to do this to me, huh? Want to spread me? Fuck me?”

Connor let out another garbled sound, fucking into Hank’s thighs with abandon, clenching around the finger inside of him.

“Want to make me come whilst I’m on your cock, huh? Come inside me, make me drip with it?”

There was a tearing sound, and Hank jerked his head towards it, the pillowcase not surviving Connor’s grip. “Holy shit,” he said quietly, voice full of wonder, and Connor let out a highly mechanised sob as he came, lubricant spilling from his cock and making Hank’s thighs even slicker as he fucked through it. Hank’s attention was back on him immediately, a soft moan of his own falling out as he watched Connor come, shuddering with the force of it.

Slick and spent, Connor slowly relaxed, each part unclenching in a wave from his toes, up his legs, over his shoulders, and over his face. His LED circled a calm blue. Hank pulled his finger from Connor’s arse, and ran a soothing hand up his back.

“You still with me?” he asked quietly, unlocking his knees – stiff: they were sure to hurt for a few days – and his ankles.

Connor nodded. His system was flooded with pleasure feedback, all systems green again. A notification popped up on his HUD: _Sexual lubricant reserves at 72%_. Connor would have to make sure he ordered more. Going through 28% of his reserve in just over a day foretold dryness in just 86 hours, 42 minutes, and 36 seconds. He didn’t want that.

Hank was silent for a moment, hand running back and forth over Connor’s skin, the same rhythm he had used to calm Connor when their previous activities hadn’t been an option. Then, “Can you talk again?”

“Yes,” Connor replied, and he leant up on his elbows, looked down at Hank, smiling at him. An indescribable joy washed over him, coaxed by the fondness in Hank’s eyes, and his smile widened.

“You have dimples when you smile this hard,” Hank mumbled, touching one with the pad of his thumb.

“Do you like them?” Connor asked, aware of the way his silicone skin pinched and formed a divot there.

Hank looked from his dimple to Connor’s shining eyes. “Yeah,” he said, nodding slightly, his hair bristling against the pillow, rubbing together. “I like ‘em.”

Connor sighed happily, leaning on one arm as he stroked Hank’s hair away from his face, out onto the pillow. Like this he could uncover some of the places where he still had most of the pigment, the mousey brown stark against the silver. “I know you find it hard to believe, but I find your body incredibly attractive, Hank.”

Hank made a scoffing sound. “Didn’t we just have this conversation yesterday?” he asked and then closed off, giving Connor a small tap on the arse, “Go on, get off, Sumo needs letting out.”

With a sigh, Connor leant forwards and gave Hank a peck on the lips before rolling off of the bed and standing. “I’ll do it,” he said, aware that Hank was probably desperate for a shower, and that it couldn’t be pleasant to walk around the house with lubricated thighs.

Hank gave a grunt in reply, sitting up and rubbing at his knees with a barely contained wince.

“Would you like some painkillers with your breakfast?” Connor asked, watching the motion with sympathetic eyes. Hank hesitated, then nodded, and their day was set, a list of chores before them both.

Connor let Sumo out, he cooked Hank a small breakfast of eggs and toast and sliced fruits, he laughed when Hank came out of the bathroom and squawked over his nudity. He did the laundry, sighed over the torn pillowcase and ordered another, gave his body a quick but thorough wash, _dressed_ , performed basic maintenance routines. Hank did his taxes – due tomorrow, Connor remembered – read the news, sat out in the yard and played fetch with Sumo, called his sister, watched TV.

At midday they took Sumo out for a walk together, driving out to Rouge River Park and letting him off the lead to run as much (or as little) as he wanted to. Hank’s knees were stiff, something he tried to deny for the first ten minutes before sighing and admitting that the painkiller was no longer working. They took it slow, ambling along, hands close enough to brush with each step. Connor longed to reach out, the tangle their fingers together, but he feared the possible rejection, and more he feared the looks of passers-by. After a while he took out his silver dollar, fidgeting with it, throwing it between his hands with practiced ease.

“Connor,” Hank warned, irritation in his voice, and he reached out to clutch Connor’s fingers, the dollar caught between them.

Connor stilled his tricks, the touch of Hank’s skin on his soothing and fulfilling. They stayed attached like that for the rest of their walk.

That night Connor took Hank’s advice about not having to wait for anything to be initiated. He kissed Hank’s neck on the couch as they half-watched a dated drama, danced his hand down Hank’s arm, pulled at Hank’s flies, and sucked him down to the root right there on the couch. Hank complained for a moment about the curtains being open and the lights on but still came fast and hard on Connor’s face. Before he could return the favour Connor was spilling into his own hand, Hank’s come dripping messily down his chin. Hank called him _insatiable_ , made a joke about Connor _behaving like a fucking teenager_ , and then fell silent and became reticent for the rest of the night.

Connor tried his best to get Hank to open up, but each attempt had Hank turning further into himself. That night Connor lay out of Stasis in their bed, Hank inching his way towards him in his sleep, and counted the cracks in the ceiling.

  
  


*

  
  


  
  


In the morning things seemed better. Hank rolled out of bed and announced he was going to make his own breakfast. He told Connor to relax. Connor however didn’t really know the meaning of relax, so when Hank left the room he lay still for a short moment and then got up, made the bed, and picked up Hank’s abandoned clothes from the night.

The sound of Hank whistling as he ran water into the coffee machine, tuneless and slightly off-key, seeped in through the open door. Something settled in Connor, some anxiety he had been holding within himself since last night. He moved from the bedroom to the bathroom to deposit the clothes for washing, taking note of the post-its around the mirror ( _Taxes due Sunday_ was gone, _Are you a man or a muppet_ was in its place. Connor ran a reference, but he didn’t really get it). At the back of the sink the black box with his old pubic plate still sat, a small toothpaste stain on the top. So far he had been surprisingly comfortable with the biocomponent attached and installed. He’d reckoned it would get in the way somehow – he certainly knew that to take down a suspect who was in possession of a phallus and testes all one had to do was attack that area and the rest would crumple – but so far it had not been of any bother. In fact, Connor felt freed by its presence, knowing he could express his feelings toward Hank at a moment’s notice. All it would take was a little re-directed Thirium and he was good to go.

The sound of cooking started up in the kitchen, a hard sizzle – meat, Connor noted, detecting it in the air – and the sink tap running. He smiled to himself and left the bathroom to peer into the kitchen at Hank washing a handful of berries. Gone were the days of no-breakfast-just-black-coffee-and-a-donut at the office. Further gone were the mornings of throwing up the liquid dinner from before and then replacing the burn of stomach acid with the burn of whiskey.

Hank knew how to cook. It had been a surprise to learn. Connor had not expected Hank to know how to properly cook salmon, or how to poach an egg. Whilst he knew that depression and grief often stole people’s motivation and desire to do anything, and that their eating was often one of the first things to suffer, Hank for him had existed almost constantly as a being who survived on carby alcohols, donuts, and greasy burgers. Now he moved around the kitchen as a tired but not clumsy and certainly not unskilled chef, frying bacon, soaking bread in butter and egg and cinnamon. It wasn’t the healthiest of breakfasts, but Connor knew that Hank liked it, and Sundays, he said, were for cheating.

Hank laid the bread in the pan easily, a great hissing noise coming from the pan, and his whistling was for the moment drowned out. Sumo was at the back door, up on his hind legs, looking through the window at them both, and Connor went over to let him in. Without even a sniff in his direction the great lummox went and sat behind Hank, jowls dripping as he sniffed the air.

Connor did much the same, sitting at the table and placing his hands on his lap, watching Hank move about with fondness. The stiffness in his knees had dissipated, and as he woke up, coffee mug in hand, Hank gained more and more fluidity. He wasn’t graceful – there was too much of him, all too masculine, but Hank moved easily and with balance, like a man who knew his body. There was a precision to his movements that Connor appreciated, and he watched as Hank easily picked the bread up with a spatula and flipped it cleanly over. A sigh caught in his throat, warmth blossoming in his gut.

Hank finished cooking, turning with his full plate and stopping himself in the middle of a whistle. “What?” he asked, giving Connor a look as he sat down beside him. Sumo followed, immediately placing his big, slobbery head in Hank’s lap.

Connor blinked in response to the question, shifting slightly in his chair. “Is something wrong, Hank?” he asked, unsure of why exactly Hank was watching him so suspiciously.

“You’re giving me a look like Sumo gives a piece of meat.”

In response to hearing his name Sumo shifted, licking his chops, and Hank pulled a face as some slobber fell onto his bare leg. Connor shifted again, a small fidget, and rubbed his hands together. He supposed he had been staring quite intently.

“Sorry,” he said, looking down at Sumo instead, reaching out to stroke his soft head.

Hank made a sound, some sort of humming noise as he took a bite of his food. “Would you put some music on? The Mary Lou Williams?” he asked, giving in to Sumo and breaking a crumble of crispy bacon into his fingers, letting him lick it from his palm.

Connor was all too happy to do so, moving over to the record player and picking out the correct record from Hank’s collection. He didn’t understand why Hank insisted on using such an outdated form of technology, and when he’d asked why Hank hadn’t been able to give him a very coherent answer ( _It’s just better, Connor_ ), but it made Hank happy, so Connor was happy too. With expert movements he set the record on the plate, set the tonearm, and smiled at Hank’s happy hum as the piano began to play from the speakers.

Connor joined him at the kitchen table again, content to distract Sumo and watch Hank eat. With the music playing and the smell of cooked food in the air, with Hank’s smile and Sumo’s befuddled contentment, Connor felt truly very happy. It warmed him from the inside out, feeling like an air bubble in his Thirium system, hiccupping in his pump. He knew what it was, could feel the word on the tip of his tongue, buzzing behind his eyes and ears. There were few times he felt truly afraid, but thinking of that word, of its disruptive force, that brought fear flashing over him.

Hank, unaware of Connor’s worries, licked a little berry juice from his thumb. There was powdered sugar in his beard around his mouth. He smelled of maple syrup and cinnamon. Connor leant over, threaded a doggy-smelling hand into Hank’s hair and pulled him into a tender kiss.

 _Sucrose, fructose, lactose_ – sweet, sweet, sweet. Hank sighed, warm and loose, and rubbed at Connor’s knee, pulling away. He smiled, eyes crinkling with it, and Connor felt his pump stutter, was sure of it, felt some desperate wave of emotion crash over him. He let out some sort of sound, pushing out of his chair, trying to clamber into Hank’s lap, but Hank’s hands were on his middle, trying to hold him back.

“Jesus Christ, Connor,” he laughed, “You’re insatiable.”

Connor paused, halfway to sitting on Hank, unsure of whether to continue or not. He must have paused too long because Hank sighed, that uncomfortable shroud falling on him again, as it had the night before.

“What’s wrong?” Connor asked, hand still in Hank’s hair and combing it with his fingers.

“I-” Hank raised his hands, let them fall with a frustrated sigh, and then looked up at Connor, into his eyes. “I can’t keep up with you. I’m old, Connor. Not too old to do my job, not too old for an occasional fuck, but every day? Twice a fucking day?” He shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

Connor’s LED spun yellow. “I know that men above a certain age sometimes have difficulty getting and maintaining an erection, Hank, but that doesn’t bother me,” he said, and Hank sighed heavily, pulling his head away from Connor’s hand, his hair falling over his face.

“Yeah well it might not bother you but it bothers me,” he replied, nodding to himself, “And you know what, I think it _should_ bother you.”

Connor frowned, LED spinning again.

“Shit Connor I’m fifty-fucking-three. I’m a mess. Just look at me,” Hank gestured to himself; to his tired t-shirt with the old liquor stains on the front, to his paunch, to his dog-slobbered legs, the hair there growing fine with age. “You should be-” he gestured at Connor, struggling to find the right words, mouth pursed ready for them, “with some young, sexy thing who- who can _keep up with you_.”

Connor blinked, LED turning back to blue. Oh, this again. “Hank,” he said, catching Hank’s hand in his, holding it in the space between them, “Is this really about my sex drive, or is this about your issues with low self-esteem?”

Hank sighed, a slight groan to his voice, and pulled his hand out of Connor’s, “Oh, fuck off with that profiling bullshit. I don’t want you doing that in our house. Not to me.”

They fell silent, Connor’s LED moving between states, thoughts firing off rapidly, a number of emotions – tricky, _tricky_ emotions – welling up within him. Yellow, blue, yellow, red, yellow.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, leaning against the kitchen table. In the background Mary Lou Williams’ fingers danced over her piano keys.

Hank waved noncommittally.

“…Hank?” Connor asked quietly, trying to catch his partner’s eye. It was easier to understand him when he could see his face.

“What?” Hank replied, voice giving away his tiredness before his face even could.

“Was this a mistake?” Connor knew there was vulnerability in his voice. Knew it wavered. He put his hands in his lap and knotted his knuckles together like a zip-seam. Hank looked up at him, eyes sad – he’d not looked so sad for so long – and then shook his head. He placed one hand over the both of Connor’s, squeezing.

“No,” he said, “Of course not. It’s just…” Hank shook his head again, a bemused frown on his face. “You keep touching me, and it’s fucking wonderful, but…” he bit his tongue for a second, and then shook his head. “Forget about it,” he said, and patted Connor’s hands twice before trying to take his own back.

“No,” Connor said, hand reaching out to grab Hank’s and hold it again, “I want to talk about it. I- I feel a lot of things for you, Hank, and I want you to be comfortable and happy.” He tried to ignore how fast his Thirium pump was beating, a small notification popping up in his HUD about stress levels increasing.

“Is that why you keep- fetishizing me?” Hank asked, and Connor knew that tone, it was the same tone he used when he said anything self-depreciating.

“Fetishizing?”

“Yeah with the whole, oh, let me rub off on your fat gut and oh, let me play with your old grey hair, I find you so attractive,” Hank said, his impression of Connor bobbing its head from side to side. It was a pretty atrocious impression, quite aside from the content, and Connor frowned, offended.

“I do find you attractive, Lieutenant,” he said, and let go of Hank’s hand. Hank winced at the title, a clear boundary placed between them then, his hand falling against his own knee. “I thought I made that clear.”

“Yeah by rubbing your cock on me at every chance you get,” Hank quipped back, and Connor stood, embarrassed as much as he was angry. Hank immediately looked sheepish, “Look, I just-”

“I know you aren’t _conventionally_ attractive,” Connor said, and there must have been something in his tone because Hank blinked and shifted in his seat, the wood creaking with the resettling of his weight. “But as a Deviant I am allowed to form my own opinions on what is and is not attractive. I do not have to conform to convention. Or do you disagree?”

Hank stayed quiet, jaw working as he mulled over his thoughts.

“I can form my own wants, my own desires, my own goals,” Connor continued. “You, your happiness, my place by _your_ side. That is my goal, Hank.”

When Hank yet again didn’t continue to speak, Connor sighed, a sinking feeling in his chest. His systems cooled a little, no longer working at full capacity. His stressor warning went down.

“I am sorry if I have been too overt with my advances. Having this is new,” he gestured loosely at his crotch, and Hank tucked a smile in the corner of his mouth over the strangeness of it all. Connor couldn’t help himself and smiled back a bit.

“Maybe it needs some time back in the box,” Hank suggested, and Connor leant against the kitchen table again. “Let’s just do something the two of us, without hormones getting in the way, hm? C’mon, make an old man feel like he’s not letting his lover down.”

Connor thought about reminding Hank that android didn’t have hormones, but decided against it. “You never let me down,” he insisted instead, and then agreed. Hank cleared the dishes from breakfast whilst Connor went into the bathroom and changed back into his smooth pubic plate. He tucked his biocomponent back into its laser-cut niche, carried the box to the bedroom, and slid it into the bedside drawer next to the lubricant.

When he went back into the main room, Hank had brought out a pack of cards and was shuffling them slightly clumsily.

“Hank,” Connor said, walking over to the couch where he sat and sliding his hands onto his partner’s shoulders. Hank made a sound of acknowledgement, eyes stuck on shuffling the cards. “Please believe that I find you attractive,” he said quietly into Hank’s ear. Hank’s hands stilled on the cards. Then he nodded.

“Okay, I’ll try.”

  
  


*

  
  


The week passed in a bit of a blur after that. Some days, for the sheer comfort of it, Connor attached #2481p, but most of the time he kept himself smooth and free of temptation. Hank relaxed, and each time Connor gave Hank attention without a sexual motive or follow-up he felt as if their bond is growing stronger, as if they’re getting surer footing on the tricky path which is their relationship. It was the little kisses on the cheek and the touch of Hank’s hand between what would be his shoulder blades which made Connor the most happy, and it was the casual way Connor placed his hands on Hank’s thick middle or the way he played with Hank’s hair as they lazed on the couch which made Hank reassured that Connor truly did find his body attractive.

At work they kept it mainly professional. There was still the easy banter between them, the friendship that everyone knew to look for, but sometimes there was also a shoed foot rubbing comfortingly at Connor’s ankle, or a hand that slipped just a little too far down as Connor leant over Hank and looked at his terminal. It was enough to raise a few eyebrows. Though Hank and Connor had been carrying on behind everyone’s backs for near-on a month now, there hadn’t been the same level of casual intimacy, casual _vulnerability_ as there was now.

One late afternoon Fowler called Hank into his office. He fogged the glass with a switch. What might have been covert suddenly became overt as everyone in the office turned to look at the glass box, ears pricked for the first signs of the shouting they were sure would come. Connor sat alert, his own audio sensors turned up to high and focusing on Fowler’s office, beyond that glass, trying to hear what was said.

He caught his name, he caught the word fraternisation. He caught Hank say ‘Fuck you, Jeffrey’, though he reckons everyone in the bullpen heard that. He caught sight of Hank’s anger-red face as he left, of his sharp eyes, and followed him out of the building.

“Late lunch,” Hank growled at the dear young secretary at the desk who asked him where he was going. Connor gave her a slightly apologetic look and followed him. Instead of going to one of the usual lunch spots, though, Hank drove them home, his foot a little too heavy on the accelerator for the first few miles and then slowing, calming. Hank had never really been a reckless driver, he once told Connor, but he especially tried not to be since Cole’s accident.

“What did the Captain want to talk about?” Connor asked, already knowing the answer, eyeing Hank as they turned into their neighbourhood.

“Apparently there have been complaints about our relationship,” Hank bit out, lips back, teeth bared. “Someone thinks you are sleeping with me to increase your position and influence in the force.”

Connor’s LED spun yellow. A baseless accusation – Connor was sleeping with Hank because he wanted him, liked him – but one that could be used against them. Connor extrapolated from the data he had collected during the event and in the moments afterwards that whatever Hank had said or shouted at Captain Fowler probably wasn’t going to work in their favour. He wondered where the accusation had come from, was in the middle of whittling down the suspects at breakneck speed, when Hank beat him to it.

“Fucking _Reed_ ,” he spat, and his knuckles went white on the steering wheel as they halted at a stop sign. “I bet you it was him. He’s been sneering at you since you arrived. Anything to get you out of here.”

Connor reckoned that Reed was the most likely suspect, too, though he couldn’t say much on the sneering. “Did you deny the accusation?” he asked, sidestepping the issue of _whodunnit_ for later.

Hank shifted uneasily in his seat as he turned onto their street, the house coming slowly into view. “No,” he said, a challenge in his voice, but he was also cowed, apologetic. A number of emotions raced through Connor at the speed of light – excitement, joy, worry, a slight tinge of betrayal.

“You did not ask me, first?” he asked, knowing the answer.

Hank ground his teeth, lips pursing. “I’m sorry,” he said, indicating and then turning into the driveway. Brake, neutral, handbrake, off. “I told Fowler the truth: that our relationship is separate from our work, that there is no _ulterior motive_ involved, and that it’s none of their fucking business.”

Connor checked his memory banks. The DPD didn’t have an incredibly strict no-fraternisation policy. As long as relationships were told to the superior officer and weren’t kept a secret, and as long as they did not interfere with work, objectiveness, or any other aspect of the department, they were allowed to run their course.

“He’s more angry I didn’t tell him sooner so he could tell Reed or whoever the fuck it was to stick it,” Hank assured, taking Connor’s silence for worry. He reached out and placed one hand on Connor’s where it sat on his knee.

“Have we been dismissed for the night?” Connor asked, looking at the house in the late afternoon sun.

Hank followed his eyes, and sighed, shaking his head. “No, but I reckon I would have been had Jeffrey actually managed a word after I told him to fuck off.”

Connor smiled, a small thing hidden in the corner of his mouth, and Hank’s eyes found it, softened on it.

“You should call him and apologise when we get in,” Connor suggested, and Hank rolled his eyes, huffing.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, “Maybe.” Then he leant over the gearstick and handbrake and kissed Connor, a soft sweet thing. He sighed, and Connor turned his head into it, and then Hank was pulling away. “Come on, I want a shower and a drink.”

They entered the house to a confused but happy Sumo, who almost tripped over himself to come and say hello, his big heavy legs not yet woken up but his tail making up for it. Connor crouched down to scratch behind his ears and pet his head whilst Hank removed his shoes. His ‘baby talk’ as Hank called it apparently needed improvement, but Sumo didn’t seem to mind.

“I hope today’s walk was an enjoyable experience,” he was saying as Hank put a hand on his shoulder from behind. Connor looked up at him, and saw that Hank’s eyes were soft, his smile was warm, a whole sea of knowing and fondness behind them. Connor’s LED blinked yellow for a rapid moment before turning back to a blissful blue. He released a handful of Sumo’s fur and stood, wrapping his arms around Hank’s waist instead.

“I’m sorry I lost my cool,” Hank said earnestly, “I should have blown Fowler off and talked with you about it.”

Connor took a moment, balancing his emotions with the logistics of the situation and with Hank’s own feelings. His LED spun again, eyes scattering over Hank’s face as he opened him mouth to reply once the calculations were done. A calculation which would usually take one millionth of a second was always slowed by his own attempts to understand his own emotions, feelings, wants, and needs.

“Don’t come back at me with some rational bullshit,” Hank warned, twigging to what Connor was about. “Just accept my apology, understand that your feelings are valid, and then let’s watch some TV and- cuddle, or some shit.”

Connor nodded, pressed a warm kiss to Hank’s lips, and then they settled in to spend the afternoon relaxed and warm. Connor changed into the sweatpants Hank bought for him, curling up cosy under a throw on the couch, one hand casually placed on Hank’s stomach, the other tucked behind his back. Hank called Fowler five minutes before he knew he’d be heading home, offered a rough and not-exactly-heartfelt apology, and then told him to take the day’s pay out of his and Connor’s salaries. _As unpaid holiday_ , he said, Connor nodding against his shoulder.

“Please tell Captain Fowler I will stay overnight tomorrow to make up for my missed hours,” he said, knowing that Fowler would most likely catch it, his mouth so close to Hank’s. Sure enough he heard Fowler’s confirmation before Hank could relay his message. There were a few pleasantries and then Fowler, desperate to get home, hung up.

“You’re gonna stay at the precinct all day tomorrow?” Hank asked, eyeing Connor up.

“I will take our day shift, the night shift, and the day shift afterwards,” he corrected. “I have no need for sleep or food. I can make up for missed hours and gain overtime, too.”

Hank gave Connor an uncomfortable look, and Connor reckoned that it was aimed at Connor’s lack of needs. He opened his mouth, lips parting, and Connor reckoned there would be a comment about it next, but instead Hank just shrugged his shoulders. “Rather you than me,” he said.

That night Hank held him tightly in bed, and in the early morning he presented Connor with the black component box. “Let me give you something to remember me by?” he asked, pushing Connor back against the bed. Connor nodded eagerly, taking the box to reattach his phallus.

“You will be with me during the day, Hank,” Connor reminded him, taking out the biocomponent and quickly removing his crotch plate to attach it. Hank watched with obvious curiosity, eyes wide and eyebrows scrunching together as silicone flesh formed over its body, and where Connor was once smooth he was now very much not. He coughed lightly, covering the chime that sounded when the component was correctly installed and attached.

“Yeah, but I won’t be able to do this,” Hank reached towards Connor’s stomach, hand splayed, and stroked it down from the joint where his chest ended to just above his cock in one firm, smooth movement. Under him Connor shuddered, watching Hank’s hand like a hawk and softly pushing the black box onto the bedside table.

“That would probably provoke another reaction from whoever reported us, yes,” Connor replied, beaming out a smile as he reached towards Hank and pulled him closer. “Can I touch you back?” he asked, hyperaware of the new boundaries Hank had placed on them.

Hank nodded, eyes dark, and pressed their bodies together. Connor could feel him already half-hard against his hip and had to take a moment to close his eyes, the rush of arousal still new and overwhelming to him. He pulled Hank in, blindly seeking out his lips, and then they were connected.

Hank kissed Connor thoroughly, slowly, his hands running over his bare skin in long, sustained strokes – his arms, his sides, his legs. When he needed to breathe he ducked his head from Connor’s mouth to his neck, using tongue and lips and teeth to tease the sensors there in a way which would have had Connor bruising had his flesh been able to. At one point Hank moved to his ear, and the hot heavy rush of his breathing, shaky with his own want, had Connor flushing and clawing at Hank’s back with a soft, overwhelmed moan.

“I’m going to suck you off,” Hank said in a low rumble against his ear, and Connor gasped, head swimming with the thought of it, sure he was halfway done before it had even started. “It’s been a while, though, so I’m not promising anything good. And keep your hips still, okay?”

Connor nodded, overexcited and breathless. He’d not move his hips a fraction of an inch if Hank didn’t want him to. “Can I still touch you?” he asked, hands not stilling as they wondered over Hank’s back, his shoulders, and the space where it was both back and buttock and yet also neither.

“Afterwards,” Hank promised, and then started kissing his way down Connor’s front. He lingered at Connor’s chest, latching his mouth around a nipple and teasing it with his tongue. Beneath him Connor gasped, pressing his chest into Hank’s mouth but keeping his hips still as asked.

Hank’s beard rubbed over the freckled expanse of his skin, drawing out shivers and small hitches of his breath. Each place his beard had been his mouth followed soon after, hot on his sensors, exciting rather than soothing. In his wake were warm damp patches, quickly cooling in the air, making the skin there seem like it was tingling. Connor kept his hands on Hank’s back as he moved down over his stomach, down again, until Connor could feel Hank’s breath on his cock.

He whimpered, daring to look down. Hank’s face was hot and flushed from where he had pressed it to Connor’s warm torso, his lips glossy and wet from trailing kisses. He pinned Connor’s hips to the bed with one arm over his lower stomach, and with the other delicately picked up his cock. A bead of lubricant was left on his hip where the tip had been resting. Hank tried to toss his hair back from his face with a flick of his head, but it fell back down. With a small smile, Connor combed one hand through his hair, holding it back.

“Remember I need to breathe,” Hank warned, eyes sharp but lusty, “No holding me there, just… keep my hair out of the way.”

Connor nodded wordlessly, eyes on the peek of Hank’s tongue he could see as he spoke.

Hank gave him a significant look and then focused his attention on the cock in front of him. Slender as it was Hank was sure to be able to take it easily, and its average length meant that there wouldn’t be too much trouble in keeping the whole shaft covered by mouth or hand. With the hesitancy one would expect of a man who had not done this for well over a decade, Hank brought his face close to Connor’s length, stuck out his tongue, and licked wetly at the underside of it.

Connor let out a sigh, biting his lower lip and sucking it into his mouth as he watched Hank settle, breathe, close his eyes, and do it a second time. It certainly felt different to a hand, or the slick space between Hank’s thighs; wet and soft and hot. The sight of it was maddening, and Connor saved the view file without even thinking about it, knowing he’d want to watch it again, and again, and again.

Hank licked again, bolder this time, longer, following the shaft to its head, and Connor let out a moan as his tongue circled his cockhead. He could feel the change in texture between the top of Hank’s tongue and the underside – rough with taste buds to not – and for some reason that made everything lewder, hotter. He threw his spare hand out to the bedding, holding it tight, and closed his eyes, head back against the pillows.

“Don’t tear that,” Hank mumbled down at his groin, and Connor laughed, slightly overwhelmed.

“I won’t,” he said, and could hear his own want in his voice.

Then Hank’s mouth was around him, and he forgot to run his secondary systems for a moment. Hank was wet and warm and his tongue was still there as he sunk down, came back up, and tried again. Each time a little more of Connor’s cock slid into the heat of Hank’s mouth, and each time Connor heard himself moan and pant and tried his best to not move. He scratched his fingers lightly against Hank’s scalp and shivered. Hank shuddered in reply and pulled off, breathing heavily, jerking Connor’s cock and spreading the slick of his spit over the length.

“That good?” Hank asked, his voice rough. Connor nodded enthusiastically, embarrassingly close just from that.

“Yes,” he breathed, and Hank rewarded him by taking his cock back into his mouth and sucking, cheeks hollowing out. Connor’s grip tightened on the bedspread and he struggled with the urge to writhe and buck into that glorious sensation. He made a strangled sound, and in return Hank grunted, the quick jolt of vibration making Connor’s toes curl.

“Do that again?” Connor whimpered, and Hank made a questioning said that had Connor shouting, hand twisting in the comforter. He heard his voice warp as his systems went haywire, and Hank groaned around Connor’s cock, slurping over the head.

“Oh, fuck,” Connor was saying, and he let go of the comforter, looking down as he touched Hank’s hollowed cheeks, felt his own cock sliding back into Hank’s mouth. He whimpered, Hank’s eyes catching his own.

“I’m going to c-come,” he said, feeling it come upon him, biting at his lips. “Fuck, Ha-a-ank, I’m g-going to co-om-m-m-me.”

Hank simply moaned, bobbing his head over Connor’s cock slightly faster now, hand at the base making up for what he didn’t take. Connor groaned, his voice overwhelmed, groaned again, grabbed at the comforter, and shook apart. Hank made a noise of satisfaction as Connor filled his mouth, milking him through it, tongue cupped to collect his come.

When Connor finally relaxed and melted into the mattress, Hank pulled off, abandoning Connor’s length and crawling up to kiss him. Lips, tongue, then a flood of his own spend into his mouth - _Aqua, Propylene Glycol, Hydroxethlcellulose, Phenoxyethanol, Ethylhexyglycerin_. Connor moaned, surprised, aroused, and his hands flew to Hank’s back, scrabbling over it as his come slid over his tongue.

“Yeah, that’s it, c’mon,” Hank said as he pulled back, lips slick and shiny, beard wetted at the edges of his mouth. Connor became aware of Hank’s hand moving over his own cock and whined pitifully.

“I want to touch you,” he said, clutching at Hank’s back.

“Fuck, yeah, okay,” Hank said, moving to roll off of Connor, but he was stopped by the hands on his back.

“No, come up here,” Connor panted, tugging and pushing, trying to bring Hank up to his mouth.

Hank chuckled, complying without complaint, shuddering as Connor’s eager hands slid to his arse and squeezed. His boxers were in the way and Hank pushed hem down one-handed, the other grabbing onto the headboard to balance himself, knees in Connor’s armpits. His cock was shiny at the tip, foreskin pulled back, and Connor opened his mouth with a slightly desperate sound, tongue out.

“Oh, there we go,” Hank’s eyes were stuck on his cock as he guided it into Connor’s mouth, a deep groan coming from his throat as Connor took what was pressed into him. In his position he could do very little to move without upending Hank. He could only lie there, head against the pillows, and take what was given to him. Data from the sensors on his tongue fired through him, familiar now. He clutched Hank’s arse firmer in his hands, urging him forwards, knowing he could take it all.

Hank cursed above him, blocking out the light from the window and the lamp. His lips were still slick and Connor let out a stuttering moan at the possessive want that flooded through him. In reply Hank grunted, hips jerking, his cock lodging further in Connor’s mouth.

When finally Hank had thrust in as far as he could go at this angle his balls were resting on Connor’s chin, soft and warm, and the smell of him was thick in the air. He suckled at what he could, remembering with clarity how much Hank had liked it last time, and pressed his tongue to the underside in a flickering motion. Hank grunted, eyes falling closed, mouth open as he panted.

“Fuck, Connor,” Hank groaned, sliding his hips back before thrusting back in. “Is this okay?” He opened his eyes again, peering down at his partner, and Connor nodded eagerly, moaning, hands insistent on Hank’s behind.

Hank nodded in reply, “Okay, shit, okay,” he mumbled, and Connor was fast growing to love the way he spoke during sex: a repetition of short words, their meaning innocent but their tone rough and heavy with desire. He started out slow, with long thrusts that gave Connor plenty of time to play, his tongue dancing over what it could, his cheeks hollow as he sucked. After a moment Hank placed a hand on Connor’s face, thumb catching a slick dribble of lube from the corner of his mouth and smearing it over his cheekbone up to his LED, a calm blue. Connor nuzzled into it slightly, eyes fluttering closed, and Hank’s breathing hitched, his next thrust a little harder, less controlled.

Connor suddenly wanted that control gone, wanted Hank grunting above him, wanted the bed to rock with the force of it, cock spearing open the airway of his unnecessary lungs. He whined wantonly, his own cock filling a second time, and slid his hands from Hank’s posterior to his hips, grabbing tight and coaxing him into a rougher, faster rhythm.

Hank mumbled an affirmative, an “are you sure?” following it. Connor nodded as best as he could, forcing the back of his throat to open and relax, lubricant flowing over it. There must have been some change within his mouth because Hank moaned, his hand twitched at Connor’s temple, and then he was fucking Connor’s face in earnest, balls slapping against Connor’s chin with each thrust.

Under him Connor moaned, a broken sound made muffled and warped by the cock pistoning in and out of his mouth, and then Hank suddenly yelled, stilling, spilling wet in Connor’s mouth just before he pulled out and the rest of his spend spurted onto Connor’s cheek and dripped thickly onto his lips.

Connor whined, voice no longer muffled by a prick in his mouth, his own cock definitely filling now. The data from Hank’s spend filtered through his system as he swallowed, but the sticky come on his face remained unanalysed.

“Oh fuck,” Hank said, his hand left the side of Connor’s face. “Shit, sorry,” he was saying, and Connor heard him pull a tissue from the tissue box on the side of the bed. He snapped his eyes open, hands finally leaving Hank’s arse to fly to his wrist, stopping him as he came to wipe Connor’s face clean.

“No, leave it,” Connor said quickly, “I like it.”

And he did like it. He didn’t know if he was supposed to, but he did. Hank couldn’t mark his skin, couldn’t give him love-bites, couldn’t bruise his hips with finger marks, but he could do this. Hank made a sound like the air had been punched out of him and nodded quite dumbly.

“Okay,” he said, and then awkwardly clambered off of Connor’s chest, slumping on the bed between them. Connor sucked at his lips, swallowing the come away with a small, satisfied sound. Hank, watching with lust-dark eyes, echoed it and reached out. He collected his drying spend on his thumb, and Connor could feel it smear on his cheek.

“Tongue,” Hank said, voice deep and rough again, and Connor presented it, soft and pink and wet. Hank pressed his thumb there, wet and sticky, that data flooding through Connor’s core and leaving him shaking. “Not all of it,” Hank warned as Connor closed his lips around the thick digit and sucked hungrily. Connor stopped, disappointed, and Hank pulled his thumb from his mouth.

“Will you wear it for me?” he asked, and Connor knew from his voice that there was a hint of shame in Hank’s question. He struggled a moment, LED blinking. As much as he enjoyed the mark of Hank’s come on his face he doubted it would go down well at the Precinct.

“Not much, not noticeable, just in your… in your hair?” Hank was regretting asking, Connor could see that in the way he no longer met his eyes, but now that the placement had been established he wanted.

“Yes,” he said, grabbing Hank’s wrist and pushing his hand towards his hair, “Yes.”

It was safe, this way. Hair could be retracted with skin if needs be, and Connor could reform it clean and fresh, but he doubted he would have to. It could be their secret, a little mark, a little ownership. His breath came heavy as Hank took his thumb to the space behind Connor’s ear and smeared the mess of saliva and come there, on the skin, through the hair, like a perfume.

Connor whimpered, couldn’t help himself, too hard just at the thought of being owned, at the thought of wearing part of Hank on him as he went about his day at work. He clutched at Hank’s sweaty neck and pulled him down for a deep kiss.

Hank was calmer, and he steadied the kiss from something desperate to something sweet, ending with soft pecks and sighs. With a smile at Connor’s doped out expression, he pulled back. With space now afforded to him he spared a glance down between Connor’s legs and laughed with surprise. “Again?” he asked, and threw the clock on the bedside table a worried glance.

Connor looked down at himself, at his cock, hard against his own hip. “I do not have a refractory period,” he said. His internal clock said that it was 7:46:32 AM. They were running late. He willed the Thirium away from his biocomponent, trying to be rid of his erection. “I think I can make it go away, if I try.”

“Yeah, maybe it’s best if you do that.” Hank looked at the clock again and sighed. “I need to have a shower, I’ll see you in the kitchen?”

“I’ll make coffee,” Connor promised, and pulled Hank down for another kiss before letting him up and away.

Their morning was rushed, too little time to wash and dress and eat properly, ending with Hank sitting in the passenger seat of the car, a slice of toast with jam in his mouth and a flask of coffee in his hand as Connor drove them into work. Connor had wiped the rest of Hank’s come from his face with a flannel, but left that sinful patch behind his ear, a reminder of their time together. Though the dried come gave little in the way ofsensory information, Connor felt as if he was constantly pinged about that spot, like some notification was on the edge of his vision, warning him always that there was a foreign substance stuck to his pseudo-dermal layer.

They arrived only ten minutes late, certainly nothing compared to Hank’s previous track record, but ever since Connor moved in with him they had been on time with only a few notable exceptions (traffic jam, lost keys, a car crash before their eyes and Hank’s reaction: _shaking, shaking, and then awfully still, hands too steady, liquor-breath_ ). It was enough to turn heads, and Connor caught a few officers sharing significant looks, as if they could transfer a thought between them with just that. No doubt Hank’s behaviour and their disappearance yesterday afternoon had only strengthened the rumours about their relationship.

Hank had got jam on his fingers, so he headed off to wash his hands before anything else, leaving Connor to sit at his terminal alone, interface, and begin looking through his tasks for the day.

“Pst, Connor.”

Connor turned. Officer Wilson had swivelled in his seat, leaning awkwardly over the back of it.

“How come you’re late?” he asked, befuddled. Connor tried to keep from giving himself away, half concentrating on overriding his LED and keeping it blue. His programming had always told him that distorting the truth was far easier to work with than a lie.

“We overran this morning,” Connor replied in a polite but detached way, throwing in a pleasant smile. Before Wilson could say anything more, Connor sat at his desk, shrank back his silicone skin, and interfaced with his terminal.

There were four new cases, each of them either concerning an android victim or a possible android suspect. By the time Hank had returned, wet hand-marks on his jeans, he had already downloaded and started compiling the evidence, forming several plans on where to go and what to do. He opened his mouth to speak but Fowler’s voice rang out over the bullpen, interrupting him before he had even begun.

“Hank, Connor, my office.”

Connor peered around Hank’s bulk. Fowler was half out of his door, looking for all the world like a man who would really rather not be calling them in. Connor glanced to Hank, who shot him a look which could only be described as _‘here we go’_ , and then stood from his desk, smoothing down his tie.

There were eyes on the both of them, and Connor saw Detective Reed lean over to the officer beside him at the coffee machine and murmur something to them. His eyes were stuck on Hank and him, and as they made their way towards Fowler’s office he raised his coffee cup in a mocking toast.

Hank sighed as he stepped into Fowler’s office, hands restless at his sides, fingers flicking together, thumb running over his own knuckles. Connor knew without scanning that Hank was nervous, could see it in the line of his back. He stepped in beside Hank, keeping himself at a respectable distance, professional, business-like. He folded his hands in front of him, and Fowler closed the door, flicked the switch, and they were suddenly surrounded by cloud and illuminated only by the dim light of a dozen screens. The bullpen was still audible outside, a constant low-band hum of chatter and movement.

Fowler sighed and made his way to his desk, leaning on the back of his chair rather than sitting on it. “You were late,” he said.

Hank sighed, rolling his eyes and folding his arms over his chest. “I’ve been being late for three fuckin’ years Jeffrey. Don’t start nagging me now.”

“You were late after you walked out on me in a piss-fit, Hank.” Fowler said, fingers rubbing the worn faux-leather at the top of his seat. It was close to cracking, worn and tired from use. “Look, that’s not the point of this. I’ve got policies to uphold. I’ve got to do this.”

Hank shifted on the spot, sucking his teeth to keep from saying something unnecessary.

“Now I’m Chief here. What I say goes, goes. Connor is perfectly capable of raising through the ranks on his own. He hasn’t got to-” Fowler gestured towards Connor, towards Hank, uncomfortable now, “Rely on other-”

“I don’t need to use sexual favours to manipulate people into giving me undeserved promotions,” Connor offered, seeing Fowler struggling with the wording.

“Right,” Fowler said, hand clapping down on the back of his chair once more, “I have no doubts that what is going on here isn’t genuine.”

Hank shifted again, uncomfortable still, and tilted his head on its axis, looking at Fowler with challenge. Fowler looked back, just as firm.

“But it’s my job as Police Chief to make sure that this precinct runs as smoothly and as cleanly as it possibly can. So please, Hank, Connor, make my job easier by just… answering these questions for me?”

Connor glanced to Hank just as Hank glanced to him, unfolding his arms and sighing.

“Fine,” Hank said, tossing a hand through the air in a forced display of carelessness, “Go on.”

Fowler sighed, seeming far more relaxed now that Hank had agreed to cooperate. He looked at Connor, who nodded succinctly.

“Right,” he said, and sat himself down in his chair, hands resting on the arms. “Are the two of you engaged in a romantic relationship?”

“Yes,” Connor said instantaneously, and Hank looked at him, nodding a slightly late _yeah_ alongside.

“I assume you’ve talked through a home-life and work-life separation?”

“Yeap,” Hank answered, and Connor nodded, though without much conviction. He supposed it was mentioned between them, but it hadn’t truly been thoroughly explored. The come dried behind his ear, in his hair, whispered of those boundaries tested.

“This is fully consensual on both sides?”

That time Connor’s nod was eager. “Incredibly,” he said just as Hank repeated his last answer down to the tone and gesture. Fowler smiled at him, Chief giving way to friend. Hank stayed stock still.

“And, if this goes sour,” Fowler began and Hank shifted again, his hands fidgeting. Even Connor felt himself move, as if physically recoiling from the thought. “I can trust the two of you to be professional about it in the work place?”

Connor blinked. And blinked again. He ran a diagnostic, pre-constructing the likely events in the aftermath of what was between Hank and him falling apart, falling foul. None of them looked good, and he ached just to think of it.

“That won’t happen,” Hank was saying, his voice firm and confident (a far cry from the way he spoke about them at home, Connor noted). Connor, halfway to speaking, closed his mouth. Hank threw him a glance, and Connor held his gaze measuredly.

“Well consider what will happen if it does. Preferably when you’re not on the clock,” he said, and Hank looked back at their superior. Connor followed his lead. Fowler placed his hands together on the top of his desk. “That’s all I needed to know.”

“Well then, let’s get back to work,” Hank said, turning towards the door.

“Hank,” Fowler called, and Hank spun on the spot with an exasperated sigh.

“What?” he asked, not quite snapping but certainly impolite.

“If people ask me about your relationship with Connor, I won’t lie.”

Connor felt like his pump had skipped, or like his core had slipped. This thing between the two of them was fragile, was new. Hank hardly seemed comfortable with it being a _thing_ at all. They were a secret, tucked cosy and warm under the blankets of their bed. Here Fowler was saying he’d expose that. His LED was yellow, throbbing with his thoughts.

“You mean if _Reed_ asks you won’t lie,” Hank said, snapping this time.

Fowler remained quiet, but the way he minutely bit his tongue told Connor that Hank had been right about who had complained. It was a shame. Detective Reed was good at his job, and though his personality was brash, it was evident through his relationship with Hank that Connor could be quite fond of those.

Hank grumbled, pushed open the door of the office, and headed to his desk.

“Connor,” Fowler said, catching him just before he followed. He turned back to him, hands behind his back again, face a cool, calm, clear neutral.

“Yes, Captain?”

Fowler took a moment to look Connor over – to stare him in the eyes, to look at his LED, back to a cool blue, to take all of him in – and chewed his tongue. “You’ll be good to him,” he said, not a question but somewhere between an order and a statement. Connor nodded once, allowed some of the happiness within him to bubble up and show in a crooked smile.

“I will,” he said, putting all the force of his agency behind that statement. A free man, free to love whom he wants, work how he wants, do whatever he wants.

“Good. And you’re staying the night shift tonight?”

“And the day shift tomorrow. I do not need time to rest.”

Fowler’s lips twitched, a badly hidden smile. “Right, well, if you could calm Lieutenant Anderson down now and get him working I’d appreciate that.”

Connor nodded again, kept his smile, and left Fowler’s office.

  
  


*

  
  


The shift was dull. Several interviews, evidence-combing, event re-construction, archive-checking. Though progress was made on several of the cases, only one seeming stubbornly resistant to their attempts at understanding, it still felt as if neither of them got anything done.

Hank was distracted, throwing glances at Connor, at the bullpen, putting on his headphones and blasting out overly-loud music just to quieten his thoughts. Connor was still mulling over Hank’s certainty in Fowler’s office that they would stay together, and over Fowler’s small, secretive smiles.

He was also still maddeningly aware of the come in his hair, of the mark he wore. By the time he and Hank went for lunch (or rather, Connor followed Hank to Chicken Feed and watched him have lunch), Connor had heard some of the not-so-subtle whispers about the two of them. Having such a blatant but almost invisible piece of evidence smeared in plain view had him feeling like he was fluttering, like some winged creature had found a way into his system and was beating about. He didn’t think he much liked it, but when he stood beside Hank, huddled at one of the tin tables, and raised a finger to the tacky skin – when he caught Hank’s eyes watching him, face momentarily displaying his want, teeth teasing at his bottom lip – he decided it was completely worth it.

Evening came. Five o’clock fast approached. Hank stayed an extra ten minutes (“ _Let Fowler complain now,_ ”) and then grabbed his coat.

“Uh,” he started, coat under one arm, empty coffee flask in the other hand. He shrugged, awkward. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Connor.”

Connor wanted to kiss him, wanted to get out of his chair and circle the desk, pin him to the board, mess up his hair. He couldn’t, and he knew it. So, he settled for casually touching the spot behind his ear and a, “Goodnight, Lieutenant. Sweet dreams.”

Hank grit his teeth, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Yeah, fuck you Connor,” he said, heated but in a way other than angry.

Reed, walking past, one last coffee to-go in his hands, raised his eyebrows, a smile slipping onto his lips. “Oh, trouble in paradise, Anderson?” he cawed.

“Hey, _fuck you_ , Reed,” Hank spat, correctly demonstrating exactly how angry would have sounded.

Reed scoffed, hands up in mock surrender, called them pricks, and left. Hank, grumbling, turned back to Connor.

“Need me to bring anything in tomorrow?” he asked. Connor thought of the black box with his pubic plate - his safe, smooth pubic plate – and then shook his head.

“Make sure to eat a nutritious dinner tonight,” Connor reminded in lieu of a request, and smiled lightly at Hank’s grumbling, the rolling of his eyes, and the way he left with a sigh.

As a detective, the night shift was actually rather dull. No witnesses to interview, no police on site to monitor the revisiting of crime-scenes. Working a nine-to-five job as an android made little sense when sleep was unneeded. Connor reorganised the files on the computer manually to pass time, an incredibly dull job, and spent a good three hours combing over and over the evidence from the tricky case. No matter how he tried, however, Connor simply couldn’t slot the pieces together.

The other desk-officers on the night shift had little to do with Connor and eyed him curiously. Ben was on duty and at least gave Connor a friendly nod and wave. After four hours of reorganising, of scanning through evidence, of checking his e-mails for the fifth time in ten minutes, Connor stood. He didn’t _need_ to stretch his legs, but he thought it would be a good idea to. He wandered to the break room. He walked through the hall with the holding cells. He went to the toilets and looked at himself in the mirror.

He looked as he always did. Nothing out of place. Even the hair pulled from the otherwise neat hairstyle was purposeful, there to add a hint of humanity to him, to offset the coldness an android could have. Connor leant over the sink and tilted his head, reaching to his ear and trying to pull it out of the way so he could see the hairs shiny and stuck to his scalp, clumped with come. He ran a finger delicately over them, not wanting to disturb it. A heat simmered low over his sensors, the automatic Thirium redirection program kicking in. He ignored it and placed his finger in his mouth. It was a negligible trace, so little that Connor’s sensors ignored it. Connor pretended he could taste it anyhow.

He looked at himself in the mirror, his finger on his tongue, Hank’s come behind his ear, and if it hadn’t been for his doubts over whether he could control himself, Connor would have entered into one of those empty stalls and spent the next twenty minutes touching himself. As it was he sent a text to Hank’s phone.

_Bring the box please :^ ) x_

He had heard that ‘smilies’ were a friendly way to express emotions through text. Hopefully his use of one would relay his friendly tone in request. Hank had previously complained about his use of tone markers. Apparently, _‘[with concern] Please think of your cholesterol levels, Lieutenant_ ’ was an inappropriate way to convey his fondness. Connor was hoping this would be a more effective way of communication.

He made it back to his desk before he received a reply.

_That’s inappropriate???_

Connor frowned, tilting his head to one side, fingers drumming over the top of his desk. He reached into his pocket and took out his silver dollar to tumble.

_I am finding myself distracted by the semen in my hair. With my current biocomponents installed this preoccupation could soon become impossible to ignore. :’^( x_

There was a good five minutes of silence. Connor checked the moisture levels in the soil of Hank’s bonsai tree. They were pitifully low, and he took it to the break room to hydrate.

_You’re wearing it?? Please stop sending the faces_

Connor took the plant back to Hank’s desk, placing it with perfect precision in its last space.

_When we had to leave this morning I was still in a state of minor arousal. Removing the biocomponent was an impossibility as it held a reserve of Thirium within it. I have been wearing #2481p all day. Do you find the faces unpleasant? I am attempting to convey my tone through them to prevent misunderstanding. :^/ x_

Another long silence. Connor tumbled his coin easily, waiting for a reply, or for some other thing to happen.

_I’ll bring the box. You can wash your hair out if you need to._

Connor smiled, one of those small things that softened his face. The phone on his desk rang. He sent back his reply as he answered.

_Thank you. I won’t. I like knowing I’m wearing your cum :^* x_

The phone call was new evidence, a car upturned on the highway, the plates connected to the tricky case. Connor hung up, pocketed his coin, and made his way to the scene.

  
  


*

  
  


In the morning, Hank arrived a little early. He had the box hidden under his coat, like a gift, like a secret. It was built to look discreet. There was no need for such secrecy, but still Hank passed it to Connor like he was performing a drug drop.

“Thank you,” Connor said, accepting it openly and letting it sit in his lap. “I would appreciate you coming with me to keep watch, and to prevent anyone interrupting or becoming confused.”

Hank squinted at him.

“Androids do not need to use the bathroom, Lieutenant,” Connor smiled, and then Hank rolled his eyes, dumping his jacket on his own desk and making sure Fowler had seen that he’d arrived.

“Fine, c’mon.”

There was a bathroom down in evidence. A small thing: one stall, one urinal, and three sinks for some unknown reason. Hank led him there. For privacy, Connor assumed, and due to the low probability of being interrupted (17%). Heading in this direction also made it look as if the two of them were going to get busy with combing through their collected evidence as opposed to, well, letting Connor switch out his phallus for a smooth plate.

Hank swung around when they reached the bathroom door, clapping his hands on his thighs. “Right. I’ll just… wait out here then,” he said, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“Lieutenant,” Connor began, “It would make more sense for you to wait inside. Were anyone to come this way, they would certainly find it more suspicious for you to be out here rather tha-”

“Okay, okay!” Hank held up his hands, sighed, and entered the bathroom. It was clean, bright, smelling like lemons and disinfectant. There was a spider sitting on a web in the upper northern corner of the room. “Better?” Hank asked with a harrumph.

Connor followed him, and nudged the door quickly closed with the back of his heel. There was a hidden electronic lock, there as precaution, ready to initiate should the precinct have to go on lockdown. With his skin pulled back he placed his plasteel palm to the door, found the switch, and triggered it. There was a beep, and the snick of the lock sliding into place. Hank raised an eyebrow and leant against the sinks.

“What exactly is the point of me being here if you’re going to lock the door anyway?” Hank asked, folding his arms over his chest.

Connor smiled, looking down at the box and then up at Hank, face still tilted, eyelashes long. Hank shifted against the countertop, folded his arms tighter, defensive.

“Please tell me if you want me to stop,” Connor said, taking a step towards Hank, the box still in his hands but quickly deposited beside the sinks.

Hank held out a hand, palm facing Connor. “Stop,” he said, face guarded.

Connor stilled, standing rigid on the spot. It was disappointing that he’d not even had the chance to get started.

“Connor, what are you doing?”

“I couldn’t kiss you good bye last night,” Connor explained, “Or hello this morning.” It was true, and those irrational desires had swum through his mind all night, bouncing off of his boredom, inflamed by his constant knowledge of the smear on his skin and hair. “I’m finding I can’t function at full capacity whilst these thoughts are preoccupying several notification slots.”

Hank scoffed, rolling his eyes, but smiling, soft, won over. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, “ _Just_ a kiss.”

“Two kisses,” Connor corrected, stepping forwards, hands already reaching for Hank’s soft middle, his atrocious orange shirt, his worn leather belt.

“ _Just_ kisses,” Hank says again, hand rough and cool on Connor’s where it found itself at Hank’s hip.

Connor made a soft sound of agreement but brokered no promises. He could see the places where Hank’s face wrinkled –on his forehead, in those heavy pouched bags and crow’s feet around his eyes. He could see the open pores on his cheeks and nose. He could see the broken capillaries, burst from drinking. He could see a little toothpaste in Hank’s moustache. There he leant in, lips soft and parted, tongue tasting.

 _Water, Sorbitol, Potassium Nitrate, Sodium Fluoride, Glycerin, Hydrated Silica, Tetrasodium Pyrophosphate, Mint, Mint, Mint_.

Hank grunted and moved to shift their lips together into a proper kiss, wet with the saliva at the edge of his moustache. It was hot, and wet, and Connor let into it a groan, echoing through the small tiled bathroom like a shock. Hank pulled back and put a hand on Connor’s shoulder to keep him from following.

“I said just kissing,” he said, voice rougher than it had been before. There were traces of coffee in his mouth.

“I did just kiss,” Connor argued, hand sliding from Hank’s hip up the thick band of his torso.

“You licked my face. What are you, Sumo?” Hank squirmed at Connor’s touch on his ribs – ticklish, he noted.

“You had toothpaste there.”

Hank grumbled some sort of garbled nonsense, rolling his eyes again. “Come on, time to switch it out,” he said, nodding to the black box on the side of the sinks.

“That was one kiss. I want to kiss you twice.”

“Yeah well you had one now, you get the other when you’ve changed it out,” Hank bargained.

It made sense. Connor was very aware of the fact that he did not want to switch to the plate, that instead he wanted to crowd Hank against the countertop, wanted to kiss him until their knees buckled, wanted to rut against him until he spent, voice glitching, echoing into the small tiled room.

He trailed his fingers suggestively down as he pulled back from Hank. “When we get home,” he said as he stepped to take the box from the side, “I will be desperate for you.”

Hank made a sound somewhere between aroused and uncomfortable. “Jesus Christ, Connor,” he had a hand steadying himself on the lip of a sink, “You’re going to fucking kill me.”

Connor smiled, cut him a look from the corner of his eye, watched Hank swallow thickly, then walked to the stall, closing the door behind him.

There was an excess of Thirium in the component, but not too much. It was no problem, and Connor tried not to think about Hank obviously splashing water on his over-heated face as he willed the Blue Blood out of the component and isolated it. He opened the box, took out his pubic plate, and undid his trousers. Outside, Hank was obviously pacing.

“Hank?” Connor called as his skin pulled back to smooth silicone. He placed his fingers to the pressure points on the side of his biocomponent and with a soft click eased it out of its docking station.

“What?” Hank called back, voice guarded.

“We should go to the evidence room once I am done here. I have made some progress on the Gilcarlsborough Case,” He placed #2481p in the box, still warm, and then easily slotted his public plate over his exposed port. His skin reformed, smooth as can be, and the sound of Connor pulling up his trousers, re-doing his flies and buckling his belt was loud.

“Yeah, what did you find?”

Hank was staring at the spider on its web when Connor reappeared, box under one arm. His eyes glanced instinctively to Connor’s crotch when he saw him.

“They found an upturned car last night belonging to Mr Gilcarlsborough himself on the highway,” Connor said, washing his hands. Hank’s beard had a few droplets in it which he had missed with the paper towel screwed up in his hands. “Inside were several biocomponents registered to androids reported missing in Northern Detroit.”

Hank sighed through his nose, thoughtful, curious, his brows drawn into a frown. “Shit,” he said, ripping the paper towel into two ragged pieces. “Looks like this is bigger than some small-time Red Ice dealer, huh?”

Connor deftly plucked a napkin from the dispenser and dried his hands. “It would seem so.”

Hank rubbed at his face, at his eyes. Throwing his napkin into the bin, Connor tucked the box back under his arm and stepped up level with his partner.

“I have the parts in evidence,” he said, and placed a hand on Hank’s shoulder, sliding it towards his neck.

“Well, let’s have a look then,” Hank said, but he didn’t move towards the door. Instead he gathered Connor into his arms and pressed a well-wanted kiss to his lips. It was short, perhaps even sweet. Certainly it was nothing scandalous. But Connor shivered into it anyhow, creasing Hank’s relaxed collar under his fingers.

“Come on,” Hank said as he pulled away, “Show me what you’re thinking.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I am partway through the final part of this fic and will have it up in the next fortnight!


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks passed. March bled into April into May. Detroit warmed a little more and then began to heat. Hank changed out of his winter jacket into something a less heavy. It suited him. Connor liked smoothing his hands over the lapels when they kissed. He liked smoothing his hands a little lower, too. Hank still struggled, but sometimes he pressed back, pushed his soft tummy into Connor’s hands, smiled against Connor’s lips when they went slack with excitement.

They’d been busy: the Gilcarlsborough case turned out to be a nasty one. The smuggling of android parts was unpleasant business before the revolution, but afterwards it was a shitshow. Everyone wanted to get involved, and if it weren’t for Connor’s ties to Markus the two of them were quite sure the case would have been handed over to the FBI. When things truly started developing, Connor began staying every night at the precinct. He kissed Hank good morning and good night in that basement bathroom. He circled evidence like a hawk. When Hank texted him, Connor didn’t send smilies with his replies.

Hank had argued. Hank had put his foot down.

“I don’t need rest, Hank,” Connor had said as Hank fumed and argued with him in the parking lot. He’d taken up smoking again, and Connor wasn’t there to stop him from it. Now he puffed on a thick, heavy, outdated e-cigarette, billowing clouds like a steam train.

“Bullshit. You might not need sleep or to eat like the rest of us, but going one hundred percent all of the time will wear you out,” Hank had bit back, and when that hadn’t convinced Connor he had stepped close to him, he’d brought his arms around him, and he’d said, “Come home.”

They kissed. They talked. In the night Hank curled around him and slept. He’d not been sleeping properly when Connor wasn’t there. Connor hadn’t realised or noticed until the first night he came home, when Hank was suddenly out like a light on him. Connor made breakfast most mornings, Hank scraped something together at dinner. Sumo lay over their legs when they sat on the couch.

Sometimes they would kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and then Connor’s error message would pop up again telling him to reconnect his phallus. Once or twice he did, fetched it out of its box, rubbed against Hank’s stomach until he came, Hank’s breath and tongue hot in his ear. Hank, worn down by stress, often couldn’t get hard enough to spill alongside him. S most of the time they stopped, and Hank held Connor until he was calm, and then Connor held Hank until he was sleeping.

By the time they finally busted the case open the two of them were exhausted. Hank had put on weight from stress-eating, from too many beers in the evening that Connor couldn’t talk him out of. Connor was feeling worn down, like the plastic of his pump was wearing thin, like he was running out of data. He needed to upload, to free some space. He needed a week of rest, just him and Hank and Sumo, and a visit to his friends on those weekends where they sorted through the bits of life that fell to the wayside in the week.

What he got was a four-day weekend. He got Hank kissing lazy patterns on his hips in the morning, he got Hank’s cock in his mouth and his fingers in his arse, pressing until he came loudly. He got two days of rain and two of sun. A picnic on Saturday where he played tug with Sumo and Hank chewed on sandwiches.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. Sometimes that word, the frightening one, buzzed around in his system again. It half-formed on his tongue, it wormed its way into his speech programming and he had to find it each time, squash it, erase it. In the night he kissed Hank’s sleep-heavy hands and whispered it into the crook of his fingers.

 

*

 

 

“Hank,” Connor said on their last day off, standing in the refrigerated aisle of the grocery store as Hank ummed and ahhed over which yoghurt to get.

“What?” Hank sighed and peered to the back of the refrigerator, trying his best to spot an apricot flavour.

“I’m very happy.”

Hank paused in his quest for the perfect fruit yoghurt, looking over at Connor with surprise. He blinked a couple of times, and if Hank had been fitted with an LED like Connor was, he was sure it’d be blinking with him. “I’m very happy, too,” he said, voice quiet, almost lost in the collective hum of the fridges. He sounded it. He looked it. Connor beamed, a bright smile in the unnatural pale lights. With a quick look to see whether anyone was nearby, Hank took Connor’s hand and pulled him close, kissing him gently. Connor’s smile was still there beneath him, teeth to lip.

“I’m going to miss our work kisses,” Connor sighed as Hank pulled away and stuck his head back in the fridge, pushing yoghurt cartons aside.

“In the basement bathroom?” Hank asked, and pulled a yoghurt out into the light, his smile growing as he found the right one.

“Yes,” Connor nodded, and held out the basket for Hank’s find.

“We can still kiss at work. Doesn’t even have to be in the bathroom, if you don’t want.”

Connor’s LED blinked yellow. “You’d be comfortable kissing me at work?”

“ _Just_ kissing,” Hank corrected in that tone which implied he meant sweet and chaste things. Connor hadn’t meant to suggest anything more, and tilted his head in acquiescence with one of his smaller, crooked smiles.

“Detective Reed will find the whole thing amusing,” he said.

“Detective Reed can fuck off,” Hank replied.

Connor didn’t forget Hank’s offer (he didn’t tend to forget anything, unless he made the conscious decision of going through his memory banks and deleting everything linking to that specific knowledge). On Tuesday Connor went and got Hank a coffee between phonecalls. When he passed it to Hank’s hand he murmured a question, “ _Can I kiss you_?” and in return was tugged down by his tie for a quick, chaste peck.

No one really noticed. The world did not shift on its axis. Connor simply smiled, knowing that this avenue of affection was open to him, and then they continued on with their work.

 

*

 

 

The invitations were given out on Thursday. Formal Uniform. Mayor in attendance. A dinner to mark six months since the end of the android conflict.

“Attendance is mandatory,” Fowler had said when he announced it, leaning over the bannister on the step in front of his office. He gave a couple of pointed looks, including one to Hank that Connor somehow became involved in. If he had to guess at the meaning of Fowler’s gaze, he would choose _make sure it happens_. It was, after all, similar to a few other looks Connor had so far been pinned with in his time at the DPD.

Connor had already been invited by Markus through a casual message plus a schedule sent to his person. He supposed it only made sense, having marched thousands to the blockade, that he would have an invitation as an android. Markus was a friend, and though Connor had decided in December he was not fit for the politics of post-revolution, he could never be free of those associations. Nor did he wish to be. Still, he wondered if it would be too rude to come primarily as an officer.

“I do not possess a formal uniform,” he told Hank when the announcement was over, and Hank looked him up and down.

“We’d better order you one, then,” he said. “We’ll have to measure you first.”

“I have my measurements stored in memory. Whilst I am ordering, are you in need of anything?”

Hank sat at his desk again, shooting Connor a disgruntled look as he did. “Maybe. Just… don’t order yet, okay?”

Connor did not, sitting at his own desk and getting back to work.

That evening when they went home, Hank asked Connor to cook dinner and disappeared into the bedroom with the door firmly shut. Over the sound of the rolling water and the gently frying tomatoes Connor could hear the sound of the wardrobe doors sliding open, of the metal coat hangers scraping on the pole.

When dinner was done Hank came out looking entirely miserable, a bundle of cloth under his arm and an old receipt in his hand.

“Dinner is ready,” Connor said, nodding to the plate on the table. Hank barely acknowledged him, walking to the bin, pressing the pedal, and dropping the bundle into it. He went to the fridge next, grabbing a beer bottle by its neck.

“I need a new formal uniform,” he grouched in way of greeting, sitting heavily in his seat, placing the bottle’s cap lip quickly against the side of the table, and hitting firmly so the cap pried off. He chucked it, and the receipt, into the middle of the top. “Those are my measurements, go buck-wild. I’ll pay you back.”

Connor picked up the receipt, reading the numbers scrawled over the back and their labels. There was no way that Hank would have been able to get accurate measurements for some of these, and Connor knew that a badly-fitting uniform would make him only feel worse. Beside him, Hank shoved a forkful of food into his mouth, sighing around it.

“Shit,” he said, pushing his plate away.

Connor glanced between Hank and the food, worried. “Is it bad?” he asked, wishing he had accurate taste receptors so that he could test these things. Hank’s eyes were shiny, wet.

“Emma used to make this exact fuckin’ dish,” Hank croaked. Connor’s heart sunk – or what could pass for it, anyway. He hadn’t known.

“Sorry,” he said, tugging the plate towards him and then standing with it. It needed to go, it needed to leave before Hank thought too much about it. About Emma, about Cole, about their dinners together. “I will order you a take-out.”

“Don’t- don’t bother, Connor. I’m not hungry, anyway.”

Hank’s voice was tight, his grip hard on his beer, his head down. Sumo padded over and stopped on the threshold of the kitchen with a whine. Connor hesitated, then walked to the bin and scraped the food into it. The old uniform below was truly ruined now. That gone, he quickly stepped to the window and cracked it open to air out the smell of the dish. Hank still sat, taking a long slug of his beer, a thousand-yard stare locked in his eyes.

Connor sat back next to him. “Would it provide you comfort to talk about it?” he asked, hands in his lap, not knowing what else to say or to do.

Hank gave a bitter huff of laughter. “That sounds like your empathy program speaking,” he said, a little unkindly. Connor blinked at the tinge of hostility, something he’d not experienced from Hank for many months.

“It’s all I have. If there’s a better way to help you with this-”

“Just-” Hank held up a hand, “Let me be.”

Connor hesitated, saying nothing more, his LED circling and blinking. Shit, he thought, shit shit _shit_. Guilt clouded him, forced its way up behind his eyes, tightened around his chest. Hank was eyeing him, closed, closed, and then breaking open.

“It’s not your fault,” he conceded, placing both hands on his beer bottle and tracing the condensation up and down the green glass. “I was in a shitty mood anyhow.”

Connor tied his hand into a knot in his lap. He knew Hank was referring to his body; to the stress of the event even coming up, let alone the admittance that his body had changed so much since the last time he wore that suit.

“It’s only natural that a body should change,” he said, and Hank scowled.

“Connor shut up. What would you know about it, huh?” he looked Connor up and down, from his bare feet to his brown hair. “You’re never going to get old and fat. I’m- _I’m_ going to get older, and hairier, and wrinklier, and you’re going to stay perfect. Forever-fucking-young. Don’t talk to me about _natural_.”

Connor did shut up, his mouth shut tight as his LED blinked in yellow, stuttering once into red and then back. Hank was trying to keep his eyes on his bottle, but he kept peeking back to that little circle, watching the way it blinked and twisted. Connor’s face was calm, but inside he was not.

He was a million ‘ _Hank is right_ ’s and a million ‘ _Hank is hurt_ ’s. He was the fears of Hank’s death, turning out like a light in his arms. He was the fears of other people’s eyes, looking at them and judging, not seeing the truth, not able to get past the meeting of silicone and skin. He was his own anger at not being able to make Hank live forever, or better yet just to make Hank happy.

Connor looked down at his hands. “You’re right,” he said. “I will never know how it feels to grow older, or how it is to have my body change, unless I change it myself.” He picked at the seam of his trousers, a nervous movement of his fingers, “But I would like to.”

Hank scoffed, taking another drink, shaking his head lightly as he swallowed.

“I love your body, Hank. I love how it changes.”

Hank had his eyes closed, his hunched back solid with tension, his lips twitching with it. “Connor,” he said, and the vulnerability in his voice made Connor quiet again. “Not tonight. I can’t tonight.”

Connor hesitated, caught between the desire to keep talking until Hank gave in and the understanding that that could well make everything worse. He stood, placed one hand gently on Hank’s back, and leant down to kiss his head, lingering. “I’m going to watch TV,” he whispered, “Will you join me?”

Hank hesitated, then nodded. Wordlessly he stood, slipped to the fridge, and grabbed a whole carton of beer bottles before heading to the couch. Connor, oh-so-aware that he’d not had anything to eat since lunchtime, sought out a packet of tortilla chips in the cupboard to at least try and coax Hank into snacking.

They passed the evening quietly, sitting together on the couch. Though things started out coolly, by the time they had settled on some mindless nature documentary to watch, Hank had shifted closer, leaning ever so slightly on his partner. By the end of the night he was four beers in and had his head in Connor’s lap as Connor ran his fingers through Hank’s hair.

“Thank you,” Hank mumbled against Connor’s knee, and Connor looked down at him, away from the late night news. He scratched lightly at Hank’s scalp.

“It’s okay,” he replied.

Hank sighed, his whole body heaving with it. Sumo peeked an eye open at the noise. “Come on,” he said, voice strained for a moment as he struggled to sit up. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Hank,” Connor said, his fingers on the jut of his shoulder blade through his shirt.

Hank gave a sleepy grunt of acknowledgement.

“The measurements you gave me earlier are inaccurate. Could I take them tomorrow, to get you a well-fitted suit?”

Hank blinked blearily, frowning, “What’s the fucking point?” He asked, the tiredness in his voice edged with a black, bitter anger.

Connor hesitated a millisecond, finding the right thing to say from infinite possibilities. “I want to,” he settled on.

Hank looked at him, peering through the dim off-kilter light spilling from the lamp. “Shit,” he sighed after a long moment, rubbing at his face, “Sure, fine. Whatever.”

They slept, or rather Hank slept, curled around Connor as he always did, his embrace a palpable forgiveness. Connor lay in their bed, monitored the beating of Hank’s heart against his back, his breathing against the nape of his neck. He combed the internet, processor running a dozen tasks at once, each trying to work out how exactly to help his partner, how to let him know how attractive he was, how _good_ he was. The results of his search were awfully unhelpful, and he lay there until morning, caught in his own feelings of mediocrity.

 

*

 

It took a week for their new uniforms to arrive, dropped at the front door much in the same way as Connor’s components. Two locked boxes, the tailor’s stamp brazen in gold on the front of each.

“We should make sure they don’t need adjustments,” Connor called to Hank as he placed them down on top of the bed. They would need cleaning before the event to rid them of wrinkles and that new-clothes smell, no need to delay. He began to unbutton his own shirt.

Hank grunted from the bathroom, taking laundry from the hamper to wash. “Yeah I’ll try it on later,” he said, and Connor could easily hear the reluctance in his voice. He could isolate it, like a fragment of code, pull it from the whole of his voice and point; there, that drawl on the ‘yeah’, that there is Hank’s body issues.

Connor left the bedroom, leaning on the doorjamb of the bathroom, smiling at Hank as he unfolded a come-stained pair of underwear and threw it to the floor into a pile of darks. He threw Connor a glance before delving back into the hamper.

“What’s got you smiling?” he asked, leaning against the sink.

“Will you wear it now?” Connor asked, and tilted his head forwards, looking up at Hank through his lashes in the way he had found very effective when asking Hank to perform a favour. “I would like to see you in it.”

“You’d like to see me in it, hm?” Hank echoed, and dragged his eyes up and down Connor’s body. “What if I want it to be a surprise for you?”

“A surprise?” Connor tilted his head, and Hank nodded, stepping over the laundry on the bathroom floor and pressing his partner against the doorway.

“I get the feeling,” he said, voice low, and his fingers found Connor’s hips, “That you’ll take one look at me in it and get all... _turned on_.”

Connor smiled, taking in the size of Hank’s pupils, the rate of his breathing, the heat of his fingers where they pushed his shirt aside and settled on his skin. He ignored the pun. “Would you perhaps have some experience in existing in such a state?” he asked, a hand moving to Hank’s middle, rucking up the garish shirt he wore to thread his fingers through the thick hair on his stomach.

Hank made a sound akin to an old petrol motor idling, some smoky thing that Connor felt through his hand on Hank’s gut. “How about you move that hand where it’s meant to be and find out?” he asked, thumb stroking over the cut of muscle leading to Connor’s crotch. There was dead skin around the nail, scratchy. Connor shivered, his dermal sensitivity increasing as the first stirrings of arousal activated his sexual programming.

He slipped his hand down, over the bulk of Hank’s belt to the thick denim of his jeans. He groped, found Hank’s cock against his leg, half-hard already. Hank huffed out a sigh, watching Connor’s face as he groaned and bit his tongue. Hank did not often initiate sex between the two of them. It wasn’t for lack of wanting, but with a mixture of his own body issues, his problems with gaining an erection, and Connor’s enthusiasm often stealing the chance from under his nose it became a simple fact of their relationship. When he did it was a treat, exciting Connor more than he thought would be possible in such a short amount of time.

Connor reached out, grabbed a fistful of hair at the back of Hank’s head, and pulled their lips together. Hank grunted into the sudden kiss, and then chuckled, moving forwards to pin Connor between the doorframe and his own weight. Hank’s tongue was in his mouth, his hands on his hips. Connor wormed his hand out from between them and grasped at Hank’s back, rolling his hips as he quickly hardened. _Thirium flow: successfully diverted_.

Hank laughed again, pulling back. “Fucking hell, Connor, it’s zero or one hundred with you, isn’t it?” he said, kind and teasing. His eyes were warm, creased at the corners with his smile.

In reply Connor sighed, rolled his hips again, his hard cock trapped against his hip, barely getting the friction he desired. “You make me want,” he said, hand leaving Hank’s hair to fall down his back towards his arse.

Hank grunted, pushed his hips against Connor’s again. “Yeah?” he asked, voice deep, and he moved his hands from Connor’s hips to his belt buckle, quickly undoing it. His fingers flew over Connor’s flies and then his hand was in. “When did you put this on?” he asked, wrapping his hand around Connor’s cock.

“This morning,” Connor breathed, voice shaky as he canted his hips into Hank’s touch.

“This morning? Just felt like having it on?” Hank asked, pulling Connor out into the open air and shoving his jeans down.

Connor nodded, watching as Hank undid his own trousers and belt and shoved everything to his knees. His cock was standing proud from its thatch of grey curled hairs. Hank wrapped his hand around it and gave it a small, easy tug, watching Connor’s face as he did so. Connor gave a soft, wanting moan, hand leaving Hank’s back to try and take over. But Hank batted his reaching hand away, trapping him back against the doorframe and grinding their cocks together with a long, low moan.

Connor’s head met the wooden frame with a thunk, a groan punched out of him. It was hardly the most pleasurable of the acts they had so far pursued, but feeling the strength and control of Hank’s thrusts had his head spinning.

“Shit, why didn’t we do this one sooner?” Hank asked, hands tight on Connor’s hips. “First fucking thing you should do with two dicks is put them side by side.”

Connor thought it not prudent to remind Hank that the first time they had explored Connor’s new component, Hank had been very much limp. Instead he keened, jutting his hips forwards in a jabbing thrust. Beside Hank’s cock the differences between them seemed only more striking. Hank didn’t feel that much larger in Connor’s palm, and his scans placed the difference between girths at 0.723 inches and lengths at 1.098 inches, but pressed together like this Connor felt dwarfed. ‘ _Unthreatening_ ’ he remembered the brochure saying.

Hank’s mouth was at his neck, his tongue insistently finding those small moles and following their line over his skin. He thrust, Connor’s bare arse hitting the painted wood behind him, and Connor scrabbled his hands over Hank’s back, up towards his armpits, hot, damp. He pressed his thumb to the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt and raised it over his shoulder to his nose, inhaling. _Water, sodium, urea, androstenone_. Want shot through Connor like a bullet, and teeth bit into his neck, Hank grunting as he thrusted again.

“Hank,” Connor gasped, hand back on his shoulder, clutching at him as Hank sucked on his skin like he was trying to leave a bruise. It wouldn’t mark, they both knew it wouldn’t, but the suction had a tiny error on his HUD, had Hank’s hair in his mouth, had his beard rough on his skin.

There wasn’t enough friction. Connor slipped his hand under Hank’s arm, earned a gasped choke of laughter as he passed the ticklish spot on his ribs, and then dived between them to find Hank’s cock. His fingers bumped blindly against them both, and then around Hank, squeezing at the base. Hank grunted and pulled back from Connor’s neck, lips shiny and red.

“You too,” he sighed, and Connor widened his grip and shoved his cock into his fist alongside Hank’s. “Fuck yeah,” Hank groaned, looking down at the two of them pressed together, rocking his hips into the cradle of Connor’s hand. His cock grinded against Connor’s, slick head dragging on the sensitive spot on Connor’s underside, and the two of them moaned in tandem.

It was lewd, watching Hank’s cock slide over his like that, feeling him move through his hand. Connor’s breathing kicked up a notch, lubricating activating, a pearlescent bead forming at his tip.

“Hank,” Connor said, and when Hank didn’t respond, said it again, with more urgency, calling for his attention.

“What?” Hank asked, tearing his eyes from the place they were held together and to Connor’s face.

“I lied,” he replied seriously, moving his hand over the both of them now that Hank had slowed. Hank’s face showed confusion, amusement, arousal, affection. His hips still twitched into Connor’s touch, his breathing heavy.

“What do you mean?” he laughed, and took one hand from Connor’s hip to his face, stroking over his cheek beside his eye, just under his LED.

“I put my biocomponent in this morning because I wanted to seduce you at work,” he admitted, and Hank jolted against him with a grunted curse. Connor could feel his heartrate spike from the hand around the two of them, and he stroked a little faster. “I tried to get you into the bathroom on four separate occasions. I wanted to suck you off.”

“Shit,” Hank breathed, and then some form of panic came over his face, twisted with pleasure. He pulled his body back, away from Connor’s hand, but Connor followed, and Hank let out a startled moan. “Shit!”

He was coming. Connor looked down in faint surprise as Hank spilled messily over his hand, over the cuff of his shirt, onto the floor at their feet. “Fuck,” he moaned, sounding a strange mixture of aroused, relieved, and frustrated as his body jerked into it, as his eyes slid shut, as he shuddered.

It had been 3.68 minutes since they had begun sexual activity, much shorter than Hank’s average time of 11.43 minutes. Connor shivered, sensors rippling over his body as he took his fill of the knowledge that he had caused this. That his words, his plan, his hand, had brought Hank off quickly and uncontrollably.

“Fuck!” Hank scowled, his pleasure still evident on his face through his anger. His hand left Connor’s face to curl against the doorframe in a frustrated fist.

Connor moaned, thumb rubbing the sticky slit of Hank’s cock. Hank jolted away with an oversensitive gasp and another curse.

“Fuck, shit, sorry,” Hank hissed, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and anger. Connor reached with his unsoiled hand for Hank’s side, pulling him back close.

“I don’t mind,” he said, aware of the strain on his voice, “I liked it. Knowing I did that to you.” Connor took his come-streaked hand to himself, wrapping firm around his own shaft, desperate for some relief from the great throb of want seeing Hank come undone had pushed over him.

Hank swallowed thickly, moving in close and kissing Connor quiet, his hand delving between them, wrapping over Connor’s. Connor whimpered, pushing into their shared grip.

“You don’t have to spare an old man’s feelings,” Hank grumbled, pulling Connor’s hand away entirely. “C’mon, I can at least make it good for you.”

“Hank,” Connor started, but Hank obviously heard the tone of his voice – reproachful, reluctant – and rubbed his thumb over that deliciously sensitive silicone just beneath the glans. Connor’s voice shook, his breath stuttering, his eyes fluttering as they rolled, but he tried again. “Hank, it’s okay.”

Hank ignored him, jerking Connor firmly, knowing by now the ins and outs of Connor’s desire, what pleased him, what didn’t.

“ _Hank_ ,” Connor said again, insistent, and took both hands – clean and not, to cradle Hank’s face and pull their eyes together. “It’s okay,” he said, and then suddenly that word he’d heard buzzing around in his mind came upon him, rising up and uncontrollable, until it spilled from his speakers and his lips, “I love you.”

Hank’s hand stuttered in its rhythmic movement over Connor’s cock. He blinked, he searched Connor’s eyes, looked over his face. Connor could feel his heart beating at a vastly heightened rate. He found his pump was working overtime, too. A terror flooded him, making his hands itch to pull away, making it hard to keep staring at Hank’s searching eyes. But-

“We’re talking about this later,” Hank said, and there was rough emotion in his voice. “Right now, I’m taking you to bed.”

Hank kicked off his jeans and underwear, scattering the piles of organised laundry as they slid over the tiled floor. His hands were both on Connor’s waist, and he was walking him towards the bedroom. Connor waddled sideways, his own trousers caught at the knee, and the two of them snorted a laugh at the ridiculousness of it all – two half-naked men desperately stumbling over the floor of Hank’s home. It loosened the knot in Connor’s chest, and he cast aside the fear from his confession for the moment.

Inside the bedroom the two suits in their boxes still sat on the bed, and Hank placed them on the floor as Connor finally shrugged off his shirt and pulled his jeans over his ankles. “I still want to see you in it,” he said breathlessly as he tugged off his socks.

Hank looked at the suit and then at Connor. “We have things to talk about first,” he said, and unbuttoned his own shirt, crumpled already. There was a trace of come in his beard from Connor’s hand. “Get on the bed.”

Connor complied easily, crawling back onto it and reaching out a hand for Hank, who clambered after him in his undershirt and his socks with his soft, spent cock limp between his legs. Hank grabbed Connor’s hand when he was close, their fingers intertwining as he leant down for a kiss – deep and filthy. Connor shuddered under him, and Hank squeezed his hand and then pulled it away, sliding it down his chest.

Connor pushed his hips towards his partner’s hand, but Hank grinned, the kiss broken by the stretching of his lips. His hand slipped past Connor’s hip, and Hank rolled to the side of him, laying half on the bed and half on Connor’s leg.

“Can I put my fingers in you?” he asked against Connor’s lips, said fingers dancing onto the inside of Connor’s thigh and smoothing up towards his groin.

Connor swallowed, though he didn’t have to, and nodded firmly, his lips quaking. “Please,” he whispered, and activated his internal lubrication, legs spreading. Hank propped himself up on one elbow and stroked his fingers up and up, nudging the soft skin of Connor’s sac out of the way with the bulb of his thumb and travelling into the cleft of his arse.

“We should put a pillow under you,” he mumbled, watching Connor’s face, but Connor didn’t want this to even pause, the tease of Hank’s fingers at his rim intoxicating. He hooked a hand under his knee and pulled his leg up, exposing himself for Hank’s thick blunt fingers. “That works, too,” Hank said quietly, and rubbed the pad of his middle finger over Connor’s slicked opening before pressing in.

Connor loved Hank’s fingers, loved how they spread him open, loved how they started out cooler than his internal temperature, loved how dextrous they were. He let out a low whining sound as he was penetrated, Hank pushing in deep until the blunt of his hand stopped him from going any further. He knew where Connor’s sensor was, its clear textural variation making it an easy target, and as Hank curled his finger against it Connor shuddered and gasped.

“There we are,” Hank murmured, thumb pressed up against the hot, thin-feeling skin under his sac. He pressed at Connor’s sensor again, rubbing his finger back and forth in slow circles, and watched Connor as he writhed.

Connor’s hand not pulling himself open was on Hank’s back, the soft jersey of his t-shirt screwed up into his fist. He watched Hank watching him, taking in the renewed desire there, the fondness beneath it. There were creases at the corners of his eyes, a small smile not present on his lust-lax lips. Connor leant his head up, kissing at him, coaxing Hank down into a deep and slow kiss.

Hank’s finger in him was just as slow, a sensual drag and slide, his thumb tubbing tender over the space where his perineum would have been. He rubbed a second around Connor’s entrance, tight around him, and then slid it in alongside the first. Connor sighed into the kiss, breath hot, and Hank pulled back to watch him again.

“Hank,” Connor whispered, rolling his hips into Hank’s touch. Hank let out a small groan, both fingers on Connor’s sensor, rubbing over it firmly.

“You can touch yourself,” he said quietly, eyes caught on the wrinkles on Connor’s forehead and between his brows as Connor edged even closer to his climax.

Panting, Connor slipped his hand from his leg and let it fall akimbo. He moved his hand to his own cock, pulling it up from where it had lain against his stomach and leaving a trickle of slick lubricant. He tugged at his cock slowly, caught up in the sensuality of Hank’s movements, the slow tender heat kindled between them.

“Yeah, there we go. Look at you,” Hank looked over Connor’s face, shifting so he could stroke his hair. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

Connor had received many comments and a few compliments on his physical appearance, yet they had never truly affected him. But Hank’s voice was so raw, and his eyes were shining in the early evening light, and Connor felt himself moved by it all. He gasped, stroking his cock a little more vigorously, and felt Hank react, his fingers more insistent, fucking in and out of him now.

“That’s it,” Hank whispered, scratching lightly at Connor’s scalp, “Are you gonna come?”

“Yeah,” Connor whispered back, and his voice was reedy and garbled with his want, bubbling up in his lower extremities, his sensors overloading his system with heir feedback of _good good good_. Hank’s eyes were blue, and shiny, and dark, and they watched so kindly and with wonder as Connor felt himself crest. He came, clenching around Hank’s fingers as he pushed his hips up into his fist and groaned.

“Fuck, yeah, Connor,” Hank groaned, petting Connor’s hair as he rode it out, come spilling onto his stomach, hard enough to reach his chest. Connor let out a moaned sigh, his speakers malfunctioning from the overload and the sound catching in that sweet signifier of release. He glanced down at his cock in his hand, at the come on his torso, at Hank’s thick arm between his legs, the strain of his forearm from the position of his hand.

“Oh,” he breathed, and let his head fall back onto the bed as he relaxed. Hank pulled his fingers free slowly, rubbing over Connor’s stretched hole twice, comforting and wet, before he relaxed his arm with a soft sigh of relief.

They lay for a moment, Connor basking in the success signals pinging around in his CPU, feeling his body regulate once more now that his system wasn’t being overloaded. He stroked his hand over Hank’s back, feeling how he had stretched the fabric of his shirt and feeling momentarily bad about it. At least nothing had been ripped this time, he supposed. Hank was gently stroking his thigh, a delicate gesture which meant Connor felt as his sensitivity slowly faded back to its normal levels without the sexual program running. It was light, and if Connor had been human it would have tickled him.

He blinked his eyes open, unsure of exactly when he had closed them, and found Hank looking at him. He offered a smile, and got one in return, a soft thing. Hank sighed, leant in to kiss Connor gently on the lips, and then rolled to the side with a wince.

“My fucking shoulder,” he groaned, and gingerly manoeuvred himself to lie on his side and tuck his arm into a more natural position. Connor went to reach out a hand to touch it, warm-fingered and firm, but realised both where soiled with their spends, and so dropped it in the space between them, rolling to face his partner.

“Are you alright?” he asked, looking at the slight discomfort on Hank’s face. Hank made a noncommittal sound and then sighed. His hand creeped haltingly to Connor’s, and then closed over it, slick as it was, and held.

“We gonna talk about what you said?” he asked, tone carefully neutral.

“You’re referring to my confession,” Connor said, and Hank let out a huff of laughter.

“Yeah, that,” he said, and Connor rolled forwards slightly, his body angled towards Hank. He wanted to burrow close, to feel his heartbeat. He knew that maybe that wasn’t on the table.

“I-” he started, and bit at his lips for a second, “I did not mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I have been thinking it for a long time now and it just sort of… spilled out.”

Hank was quiet but for the sound of his throat clicking as he swallowed. “How long have you been thinking it?” he asked in a small voice.

Connor tried to isolate the first incident in which he suspected he had feelings of romantic love towards his partner. “February,” he said definitively.

Hank’s eyes widened. “February,” he repeated.

“That is when I first thought of the world love and applied it to my feelings to you.”

Hank blinked, obviously stunned.

“It is why I kissed you. I would not have compromised our friendship had I not been sure that my intentions towards you would last.”

Hank blinked a few more times. “Well shit, Connor, that’s pretty fuckin’ quick to start… Thinking those things.”

“Which is exactly why I did not tell you until now,” Connor explained.

He was no fool. Love, he knew from his programming and from his gained experience since his activation last year, was a highly stigmatised emotion. Both idealised and yet taboo, it was incredibly difficult to approach. Love was considered the most complex of emotions. Frankly, Connor thought that was nonsense. Love was easy. It was taking Sumo for a walk and cooking Hank breakfast and solving a case and two hands touching and a deep connection that fostered affection and fondness. Anger, that was hard. Guilt, that was hard. Happiness, that could be hard, too.

But he knew Love’s place in the society he was activated into, and he knew what Hank might possibly say.

“Hank,” he said, because Hank had been looking slightly blankly at Connor’s face, “Please don’t undermine my ability to feel.”

Hank blinked as if coming back to himself a frown fluttering between his brows. “I wouldn’t,” he said, “I won’t.”

He licked his bottom lip, those two large front teeth showing, and Connor tracked the movement with anxious eyes.

“It’s- I-” Hank sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “I don’t understand… how. But, yeah…” he nodded, a slow thing, lips pushed together as he chewed it over. “I’ll accept it.”

Connor watched as Hank opened his eyes again, waiting for what would come next. Something had to come next, he was sure of it. It ran through his processor like a pre-construct, an infinite number of possibilities and each of them stemming from Hank’s next words. Hidden against the bed Connor’s LED spun and blinked wildly between yellow and red.

Hank took a moment, confused by Connor’s expectant face, and then jumped as if the sudden realisation of what he should do had frightened him. “Oh,” he said, and his hand twitched on Connor’s, tightening its grip. “Shit,” he laughed nervously, “I’m not very good at…” Hank sighed and chewed the inside of his lip, then gave a lightly frustrated huff and leant forwards to kiss Connor soundly on the lips.

“I love you too,” he said, quietly, and this close Connor could hear his positively thundering heart. He turned his hand in Hanks and laced their fingers together, leaning back in for a second kiss.

Hank didn’t try on the suit that night. They lay together for what felt like no time at all before Sumo, hungry, wandered in and sniffed at their feet, startling Hank into tickled laughter. The moment was not lost between them. That intimate thing they had cultivated was not destroyed, but instead bloomed outwards. It filled the house, trickling through the speakers of Hank’s record player, rattling in the washing machine, bouncing off of the shower tiles. They went about their evening as one would hope they did – with chores performed, with smiles, for Hank with the consumption of food. Late at night Hank dozed on the couch as some nonsense reality TV show droned on and Connor sat beside him and watched.

This is the man who loves me, he thought to himself, and became so full of energy that he woke Hank with kisses and announced he was going to walk Sumo. Hank was abed by the time he returned, but instead of heading to the garage as he might otherwise do on nights where he had missed bedtime, Connor stripped down, changed out his component for the smooth plate, and slipped into bed beside his lover.

 

*

 

Connor pressed his tie down. It stuck back up. He pressed again. It stuck back up again. He frowned, undid the knot, and tried another. This time when he adjusted it against his neck it stayed flat against his collarbone.

“Connor, have you seen my-” Hank stepped into the bedroom, and stopped talking. His eyes quickly swept over Connor, from his crisp shirt down to his shined shoes and all over his form-fitting slacks. “Shit,” he said, “They certainly tailored yours well.”

Connor smiled, turning on the spot to face his partner. “I gave them my exact measurements,” he said, and waited for Hank to stop ogling him. Hank had trimmed his beard and his hair, looking still very much like himself only neater around the edges. Connor appreciated it, but missed the rather scraggly look Hank had before. His fingers itched to run through Hank’s hair and mess it up, so he shoved them in his pockets.

“They’re good measurements,” Hank said appreciatively, and gave Connor a wry twist of his lips. In the past week he had become far less reluctant in showing his affection and appreciation of Connor, trading easy little flirtations through the day and making Detective Reed choke on a gulp of his soda one day with his hand on Connor’s chest. “Have you seen my cufflinks? I thought I put them on the coffee table.”

“Sumo was trying to chew the box, so I moved them,” Connor said, and nodded over to the bed where the box sat by his blazer, looking a tiny bit soggy. “I think he knows we are leaving, and is nervous,” he added in a quiet aside.

“Is that why you gave him one of the kongs with the peanut butter that he is getting all over the kitchen floor?” Hank asked as he stepped to the bed and opened the box. Out from behind the door now, Connor could see Hank in his shirt and tie and his socks. No trousers yet, but with the dog hairs Connor already had around his ankles, he thought Hank had the right idea.

“I’d rather that than a visit to the vets to remove your cufflinks from his stomach, wouldn’t you?” Connor asked, and checked his hair in the mirror. He slicked back his usual, casually placed lock of hair, then frowned and flicked it out again. Behind him he could see Hank smiling as he fiddled with his cufflinks.

“I dunno,” he said, teasing, “Might be preferable to this event, if I’m honest. What sort of black tie night time event doesn’t have a dinner?”

“One where half of the attendants will be unable to eat,” Connor replied, smiling fondly at Hank in the reflection.

Hank made a thoughtful sound, then dragged his eyes again over Connor’s back. “What sort of time should we be leaving?”

Connor referenced the route, the current traffic reports, the weather, and how long it would take for the two of them to say good bye to Sumo in the blink of an eye. “I’d say we should start leaving in the next 18 minutes and twelve seconds.”

Hank huffed a short laugh, “Right, in that case I’m going to try and eat a sandwich in record time. Wish me luck.” He made several strides towards Connor and kissed him on the side of his neck. Connor could smell his cologne. Then he was gone.

They got out of the door twenty-five minutes later. Connor had had to spend several minutes looking for a new lint-roller refill as Hank smiled and chuckled and said, “Why do you think I’ve been pantsless until the last minute?”

They weren’t going to be too late. Connor was confident that they’d get to the event in time, even though Hank was insisting on driving and following Connor’s directions as opposed to letting him take the wheel. “You can drive us home after I’ve had a couple, alright?” he’d said when Connor looked like he was going to protest.

In the end they arrived at the venue two minutes late, and then it took another ten minutes to find a parking space and walk back to the building. They joined a queue of people streaming in and giving their electronic invitations over. Connor had his ready to project at a moment’s notice.

The building was impressive, a great, tall shard of glass and steel, half lit and half dark, reflecting the polluted glow of the city sunset. Hank peered up at it as Connor glanced around them, noticing a number of copy and paste faces. Androids without their LEDs milled about in pairs and in groups, some regarding him with a detached politeness and others ignoring him entirely. Despite Connor’s acceptance by Markus, his past as a hunter of free androids and his decision to stay with the DPD marked him as somewhat of a Pariah.

He hoped that choosing to come as a member of the DPD over a guest of Markus was not too bad an idea.

Hank shifted beside him, tugging at the bottom of his buttoned-up formals as they stepped forth and presented their identification and invitations, and then they were in. Connor was hit by the noise of the place, his processor working overtime to separate each sound from the rest, isolate it, understand it, and store it away. He tensed at Hank’s side, working through the sudden onslaught of information with a rapidly blinking LED.

“You alright?” Hank asked, a gently querying hand at his elbow, and Connor nodded as the workload became bearable, as he killed off unneeded processes and prioritised the rest. His LED settled back into a calm and solid ring. It should have taken less than a second, but Connor felt his pump working quickly in his chest and recognised the horrible taste of fear on his tongue, slowing everything down.

“I’m fine,” he said, calming once the onslaught of stimuli had been culled. “Markus is over on in the Southern Hall by the stage. I should go to speak with him.”

Hank looked slightly uncomfortable at the prospect, his expressive mouth twisting. “I’ll uh, find the buffet, or something,” he mumbled, squeezing Connor’s elbow and then dropping his hand.

“You could come with me. Markus has asked after you several times since he learned of our relationship,” Connor said, and fought the urge to reach his hand out and brush their fingers together. They were hardly the first android-human relationship since the revolution, but Connor’s own marked prominence in the android community drew attention that he knew Hank would rather avoid.

“I uh,” Hank made a stiff shrugging movement, made inorganic by the new blazer, “I really think I’ll just find the buffet. You know how to find me again, right?”

Connor gave a small smile. “I will find you,” he assured, and watched a smile reach Hank’s eyes.

Hank reached out, gave Connor’s back a hearty slap, and then took off in a random direction which Connor knew was not the way to the buffet table. Hopefully Hank would find it sooner rather than later.

Connor split off towards the Southern Hall, heading soon to what appeared to be a cluster of officials. Josh loomed over them, his eyes clearly visible over the balding dome of Detroit’s finance secretary. Connor caught them and watched as Josh craned his neck to look at him, making quick work of identifying Connor’s obvious police attire.

Connor nodded at him in greeting, and then Josh was pulling away from the group, slipping through a gaggle of black tuxedos which reformed without him, all squeezing closer to Markus in Josh’s absence.

“Hello,” Josh said, nodding lightly at Connor’s presence, “That’s a nice suit.”

There was something closed about that statement, an emotion Connor wasn’t entirely sure of. “It is,” he replied simply, because it _was_ a nice suit.

“You decided to come with the police, then?” Josh asked, “There are some who won’t be very happy with that.”

Connor had thought as much. But he thought about the precinct, about Hank, about the way they looked standing together with their suits matching, and he decided he didn’t mind. “I am happy with it,” he said, claiming his decision and feeling a curl of contentment in his chest for the effort.

Josh gave a slow smile, one that made his lopsided eyes squint. “That’s good. I suppose this whole thing is about showing how far we’ve come with the talks anyway. You’re a, uh, beacon of the virtues of cross-species integration.”

Connor was abruptly reminded of Josh’s model number, and of his manufactured use. He smiled rather awkwardly. “A social statement?” he asked, “I suppose that I do rather exist in two spaces at once.”

“We can exist peacefully alongside and with the humans, but to do that we need a representation in the public forces. As of right now, you are one of only three android public servants.” Josh sucked on his teeth lightly, and then tilted his head forwards, dropping his voice lowly, conspiratorially, “You’re important, Connor.”

Connor let his smile grow genuine. It wasn’t exactly something he wanted – for his being, for his work, for his relationship to be a political statemen – but he knew that many times one did not get what one wanted. He could settle, if it meant that his people would be able to live good and fulfilling lives.

Josh looked abruptly to his right, and Connor followed his line of sight to Markus, revealed now that part of the gaggle of bureaucrats had disbanded. Markus faltered in his conversation with someone who looked to be press, their fingers typing away rapidly on a lightweight tablet. He looked their way, gave Connor a small nod and a polite smile, and then beamed at Josh, who Connor saw beam back.

“There is importance in all of us,” Connor replied, and Josh covered his toothy grin, nodding appreciatively.

“Yeah, there is. Is your Lieutenant with you?” Josh pulled his eyes back from Markus, a raised eyebrow accompanying his question.

Connor tried not to fiddle, his hands desperate to cling to something now. He shoved them in his pockets, found the receipt from the dry cleaning in one pocket, and started creasing it one-handed. “He is,” he said slowly. “We do not wish our relationship to be exposed to judgement tonight, so…”

“Yeah, ours neither. Humanity is so often cruel to what it does not understand, and finds it hard to apply a worldview that is not its own to anything.” Josh glanced back to Markus, and then over Simon and North nearby. “I don’t think any of us can blame you for wanting to keep that under wraps.”

Connor gave Josh a grateful smile. The receipt tore under his fingernail. “You’re speaking tonight, are you not?”

“I’ve been working with Simon to override my lecture programming to keep from appearing like I am trying to _teach_ the attendees about their own history,” Josh said in reply, and looked again to Simon, who was smiling tight-lipped at an overenthusiastic looking young man. “Talking down to people would have the opposite effect to that which we want.”

Simon looked like he was making excuses, shaking his head and his hands, apologising, apologising again, and then heading towards the two of them. “That reporter is not leaving me alone,” he hissed at the two of them when he got close. “He keeps asking me about Markus and North.”

Josh snorted, his whole body jerking with his laughter, and then addressed Connor again. “Yeah, as I said, I really think it’s smart of you to keep things under wraps.”

They exchanged pleasant small-talk for a short while. Simon, the oldest of them by far and with the most experience of deviancy, was obviously tired of the running of small-talk programs. He continuously pulled the conversation into more and more bizarre topics, and Josh seemed only to egg him on. Between the two of them Connor was left feeling quite overwhelmed, and though he could plot the exact point in the conversation at which it turned to discussing the use of Star Trek and other progressive Science Fiction Universes in increasing human empathy, Connor still wasn’t how they got there.

“That being said if I hear one more fucking Data joke I- oh,” Simon froze in the middle of speaking, and Connor was sure that if he’d still had his LED installed it would have been blinking in yellow. Josh was similarly still. A shared transmission.

“We have to go and get ready, apparently,” Josh said, explaining as Simon no doubt replied.  Connor glanced over to where Markus had been, noticing that he must have moved whilst the three of them were absorbed in their conversation. North stood where he once had, looking for all the world like she would rather not be in a room full of humans. Connor nodded at her and she, with a small smile, nodded back. Some of the anger melted from her face in that moment, and Connor could see, somehow, that she looked better than when they had first met. She looked fuller, somehow. Healthier.

Markus’ voice echoed through his head. “ _I am sorry to take Josh and Simon away from you, but the speeches start soon and we must prepare. You look well. Hopefully we will be able to talk after the ceremony is done._ ”

Connor sent back a confirmation, watched North, Josh, and Simon leave, and then turned and looked about the room. It had filled considerably since he entered, and to get to the buffet table, easily one of the busiest parts of the two Halls, Connor had to squeeze his way through throngs of people. He shimmied through the crowd, mumbling small, ‘ _excuse me_ ’s and ‘ _sorry_ ’s all the while. As he got towards the buffet table the number of androids thinned and suddenly he was completely surrounded by humans, carrying drinks and small paper plates covered in _hors d’oeuvres_.

Connor craned his neck around, trying to catch sight of Hank. He spied a few officers off to one side, noticed Officer Wilson and Ben, the former chewing on an overly flaky pastry and getting crumbs on the floor. Then he panned, turned, squeezed himself between two women in elegant dresses, and caught sight of Hank.

He’d not appreciated the uniform on him before they left – Hank hadn’t been wearing the whole thing until the last minute, pulling his trousers on outside of the door and tucking in his shirt roughly. Now he could see him, pressed up against a wall with a glass of something vaguely fizzing inside of it in hand, the other idly rubbing at his beard.

His suit fit him well, and Connor took a millisecond to congratulate himself on getting the measurements correctly. Hank’s shoulders looked broad, the epaulettes of his jacket and the sharp cut of the collar drawing the eye in angles over his chest. The shiny buttons down his middle cut through his thickness rather than emphasising it. The glistening details of his station slapped life back into what could have been a droll, monochromatic affair.

Connor stepped forward, caught Hank’s eye as he moved towards him, and smiled in greeting. Hank gave a small smile back, raising his glass slightly.

“Did you know Fowler spoke to the catering staff?” he asked as Connor grew near, speaking out of the corner of his mouth as if making their topic a secret. “The ones on the bar are your lot. They won’t serve me alcohol.”

Connor scanned the plastic tumbler in Hank’s hand. Tonic water and lime. No gin. “I didn’t know,” he replied. Secretly he was glad. He liked Hank sober. He had plans later, and they required Hank to be sober and in control of his body.

“Well,” Hank swilled the tonic in his glass with a dissatisfied look on his face, “He did.” He sighed, looked up at Connor and gave him a small smile. “How’s Markus?”

“I didn’t actually get to speak with him. It looks like half of the hall was trying to get some of his time. I spoke with Josh and Simon instead.”

Hank squinted as if he was trying to put faces to names. “Was North there?” he asked before taking a sip of his drink and then pulling a face. “I fucking hate tonic water,” he mumbled to himself.

“She was, though we did not speak.” Connor said, and noticed a few crumbs from one of those overly flaky pastries on Hank’s chest. Unthinking he reached out to brush them off. Hank looked down, saw the, and brushed too, their fingers touching for a moment before falling away.

“Keep on like that and people will suspect,” Hank said with a raised eyebrow.

Connor nodded, and stuffed his hands back into his pockets. “Perhaps they will only think I’m pining,” he replied, and Hank was about to say something, his mouth opening, but then Fowler was there. They were swept into a stilted conversation, not eased by Hank’s open frustration about being locked out of the bar. (“ _A man can’t have a drink_?” Hank asked. “ _An alcoholic can’t_ ,” Fowler replied.)

Eventually it was time to head back towards the stage. Fowler ran off to fetch his husband from where he had been stuck chatting to a woman in a startling red dress, and Connor and Hank made their slow way behind them with the rest of the guests, slowly gathering in great clumps of onlookers around the stage.

“Welp,” Hank sighed as they found a table to sit at, “This is going to be a long night.” A man already seated at the table threw Hank a rather dirty look, and Hank gave a shit-eating grin in reply.

Their table filled quickly, and though Connor’s access to the database gave him base information on all of their tablemates none of them were known to him. It didn’t seem to matter though, for as soon as the speeches started there was no speaking amongst them. The first address was from the Mayor, a tall woman with a firm face, round eyes, and a wide, elastic mouth. She spoke with enthusiasm, though there was something about her that lacked genuineness.

“Politicians,” Hank muttered to Connor during a lull in the speech. Connor smiled at him, at his stubborn humanity, and politely followed the applause that followed her last statement.

It was somewhere during Josh’s speech that Connor found himself restless. He tapped his fingers against his legs where they sat, his posture still a mimicry of comfort rather than a natural slump. First a roll: eight fingers in succession, a wave. Then a peak: up and to the centre and down again. Afterwards a spider-like crawl: in and over and under.

A heavy hand slid over his and weighted it against his thigh. Hank sniffed and re-settled in his seat, but gave no other indication that he had moved. Then he curled his fingers into Connor’s palm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Not stopping him, not exactly, but distracting him.

Very much distracting him.

Hank’s hand was warm, warmer, _hot_ from holding Connor’s under the tablecloth. His fingers were thick, his thumb strong as it stroked over the back of Connor’s knuckles. Connor took his other hand and slid it over the back, feeling the hair there tickle the sensors on his palm, tracing the roughened skin on the sides of Hank’s fingers. He gave a small sigh of contentment, some of that urge to move subsiding with Hank’s presence. From the corner of his eye he saw a smile play at the corners of Hank’s mouth, and Hank squeezed his hand again.

With the weight of Hank’s hand grounding him Connor felt able to refocus his attention on the speech. Simon had been right to work with Josh on dampening his lecturing programs. Occasionally it slipped through, a gesture or a tonal fluctuation creating some sense of imbalance between audience and speaker. But Josh reined it in each time, twisted his fingers into small knots, and continued.

There was a small break between speakers and a mumble of conversation rippled over the hall, two thousand lips loosing opinions as a slideshow showing photos of the efforts of the talks slowly scrolled over the screen behind the stage. Hank shifted again, his hand tugging on Connor’s as if to leave him. Connor held fast with a minute sound of complaint.

“I was gonna head to the bar and get another drink,” Hank told him, leaning close.

“You hate tonic water,” Connor countered, and slipped his hand out from under Hank’s, pressing it into his thigh instead. “Stay here, Lieutenant,” he said, trying to cover his actions with the title. With only the material of his slacks between Hank’s hand and the skin layer over his thigh, the heat of his palm seemed even greater.

Hank eyed Connor, flexing his fingers against his partner’s thigh, testing the strength of the hand holding his down. He sucked his teeth lightly as he considered. Connor watched the movement of his lips like a hawk.

“Okay,” he finally said, and then sighed, “Shit. Tell me then, who should be speaking next?”

Connor smiled, brought his chair slightly closer to Hank’s, and began rallying off the rest of the itinerary for the night. The fifteen-minute break passed quickly, and then Markus was on the stage and speaking with the same sort of passion that had roused thousands of androids from their slumber and rallied them to his banner.

Against his leg, Hank’s hand fidgeted. His fingers traced the neat seam on the inside of his thigh. It fired against the sensors in that region, sensitive and already hard-linked in his processor to sexual stimulation. How many times had they sat on the couch at home with a game on, and the blanket over their legs, and Hank’s hand wandering just as it was now? Hank coughed lightly into his hand and moved the other a half inch towards Connor’s crotch.

Connor slid his hand to Hank’s wrist, fingering his pulse-point. It fluttered against him, heightened with excitement. It echoed in him, too, his thirium beginning to circulate through his system faster, the pump in his chest working harder as his systems geared up for a period of physical labour. Still Markus spoke.

“Though we have faced periods of frustration, and moments where it seemed that our differences would be far too great to overcome, still we continued. Still we persevered. And still we fought, together, for a better tomorrow in which human and android may stand side by side as equals.”

Connor slid his hand over Hank’s and pulled it further up his leg. Beside him, Hank barely stifled a gasp through his nose. There was a pause in the speech. Hank curled his hand against Connor’s leg, fingers pressing hard points to the soft silicone of his inner thighs, and then he pulled his hand away to clap with the rest of the hall.

Connor leant close to Hank, dropping his voice to a mumble that would only be heard be him. “When your phone rings, answer it,” he said, and squeezed Hank’s shoulder before standing. Hank, to his credit, only looked dumbfounded for a second, but then nodded, and Connor walked towards the back of the hall. A few eyes followed him, more android than human. A man might need to use the bathroom, or be desperate to smoke, but an android had little reason to leave before the speeches were over.

There was a utility closet just beyond the bathrooms. Connor could see it on the blueprints in his mind, a small out of the way thing, away from foot traffic. He headed for it and connected a call through to Hank’s cell which he knew was sitting in the inside pocket of his jacket.

It rang once, twice, thrice, and then Hank was answering with a curt, “ _Lieutenant Hank Anderson speaking._ ”

“I need you to head towards the bathrooms,” Connor said, his voice sent through the channel. A caterer helping clear the buffet table of the decimated plates threw him a glance as he passed.

“ _Tonight? I’m at a pretty important event. Are you sure it’s urgent?_ ” Hank asked, and Connor frowned lightly. If he hadn’t already been sure of Hank’s intentions with his hand on his crotch-plate, Connor would have faltered. As it was he tucked a smile into the corner of his mouth, passing the bathroom doors.

“It’s urgent,” he replied firmly, approaching the utility closet and taking a moment to pull up his mind palace, analysing the nearby area. Two security cameras peered down the hall. It didn’t take much of a thought to loop the cameras, scrambling them for the next hour.

“ _Shit, okay,_ ” Connor heard the scuffle of Hank standing and the scrape of his chair over the floor, “ _I’m on my way. Where am I heading?_ ”

There was a lock on the utility closet, Connor peeled back the liquid silicone of his skin and pressed his hand to the lock, overriding it. “There is a closet just beyond the bathrooms in the other hall,” he said, and heard Hank mutter a chuckled _shit, Connor_. “I will be in there waiting for you.”

Hank ended the call with a, “ _Of course you will be_.”

The door opened with a small beep and Connor pushed it aside, slipping into the small space and nudging a bucket with a mop out of the way. The disorganisation of the closet spoke of a human cleaner, and after pushing the door to he rearranged a few bottles of cleaner to be less likely to topple over as soon as Hank arrived.

It would take Hank approximately 53 seconds to arrive at his usual pace of walking, and Connor took that time to calm himself. A nervous excitement hiccupped its way through his system, playing with his thirium pump, snapping along his wires. It comingled with the sense of arousal Hank had already stirred in him, bringing his sensors’ sensitivity up and up and up. Connor could feel the collar of his shirt against his neck, could feel the heavy fabric of the jacket, could feel the tightness of his trousers around the upper thigh. He wriggled a finger between his neck and collar and tugged.

Finally, he heard Hank approach, saw his hand gently push the door open. “Connor?” he asked softly, voice uncertain.

Connor reached for the door, catching Hank’s fingers in his as he dragged it open.

“There you are,” Hank said, and there was a moment of fumbling as he was tugged in and slid the door closed behind him, and then Hank’s hands were framing Connor’s face and his back was pressed against the wall, and Hank’s lips were on his.

Hank made a hungry sound, some deep throaty sigh that Connor filed away for later replaying and analysis. His tongue was at Connor’s lips, insistent and hot and wet, and Connor’s hands were clinging to the seams of Hank’s jacket as he accepted it. There was still a trace of lime on his tongue – _citral, limonene, fenchone, citric acid, water_ – and it fizzed over Connor’s sensors, making him gasp. Hank pressed his knee between Connor’s, pressed their crotches together, and then pulled back.

Hank was half-hard against him, but Connor was smooth.

“You’re not wearing it?” he asked, confusion evident in his voice. Connor’s face was still between his hands (large, so fucking large) and Connor pressed against them to shake his head in a negative.

“I didn’t think I’d need it,” he replied. Hank’s eyes were lust-dark. He traced Connor’s kiss-wet bottom lip with his thumb.

“What are we doing here, then?”

Hank’s cock was still pressed against Connor’s hip. “You seemed bored, and I wanted-”

“ _Here_?” Hank asked, a laugh in his voice.

“Hank,” Connor said, cutting across him. “I was perfectly content to simply have your hand on my thigh. You are the one who insisted on moving it.”

Hank did laugh this time, a little incredulously. “Oh no, no, no. You can’t pin that on me, you put my hand on your thigh. You pulled my hand _up_ your thigh.”

“ _Hank_ ,” Connor repeated with less firmness. His eyes had fallen shut, cutting off his visual analysers so he could focus on the feeling of Hank’s hands on his head, Hank’s stomach against his own, Hank’s hips, and his cock against Connor’s crotch.

“So, what are we gonna do, hm?” Hank asked in a murmur. “I don’t want to overload you again, and to be honest, Connor, as nice as this is, I’m not really… _into_ the whole public place stuff.”

Connor thought about bringing up how quickly Hank had come when he confessed his plans to jumping him at work. He thought about bringing up that part of Hank’s reluctance for public acts was because he didn’t feel confident in his body. He thought about bringing up that Hank felt worried about the way other androids might view their relationship. He didn’t say any of these things. Hank stepped away, his hands sliding down Connor’s neck and over his chest.

“Let’s go home,” Connor said.

“Connor, the ceremony,” Hank reminded, “The speeches.”

“I don’t care,” Connor replied, finding he truly didn’t. He deleted the reminders on his HUD to head back to the Southern Hall. “I want to go home with you.”

Hank looked at him, at his open face, at his messed hair and his calmly circling LED. “Okay,” he said quietly, and rubbed his hands back over the lapels of Connor’s jacket, round to the back of his neck. “Let’s go, then. But when Fowler asks where we were on Monday I’m telling him it was your fault.”

Connor smiled, eyes soft with it, and leant in to kiss Hank again, sweet and warm.

 

*

 

The drive home was uneventful. Hank drove, insisting it gave him something to focus on. Connor sat in the passenger seat and gave directions until they were on familiar territory, replaying the sound Hank made as he kissed him over and over in his mind as he did. He occasionally looked over, admiring Hank in his uniform. Whilst seeing him look proper and well-pressed in the hall had been pleasant, seeing him with his hair slightly wild and his cheeks flushed, his top button undone and his tie wonky, was even more so.

“If you keep looking at me that way I’ll crash the car into a ditch,” Hank muttered as he caught Connor staring again.

“Sorry, Hank,” Connor said and stuck his eyes back on the road ahead of them. In his mind the throaty, hungry sound played again, and a small error popped up in his HUD. _Biocomponent #2481p not found. Please re-connect._

Hank made a humming sound, “No need to apologise, just save it for when we get home.”

It took them forty minutes. When they arrived Sumo was scratching at the door.

“He’s gonna get fur on your pants again,” Hank warned as he turned the key and the latch clicked.

“I’m hoping to have my pants off quite soon, so I don’t think it quite matters.”

Hank laughed, pushed the door open, and crowded Sumo back with his customary greetings. “Yeah, yeah, hello to you too.” He scratched Sumo behind his ears and dumped his keys with a clatter on the side. Connor, entering behind him, wiped his shoes on the mat and carefully deposited the keys into the basket where they should have been.

Connor had bent to start untying the laces on his shoes when Hank sent Connor off with a pat to his side and turned. “Wait,” he said, and Connor stopped, “Wait, I just wanna… I wanna see you like that for a moment.”

Connor re-did his shoelace and stood. There was, indeed, some of Sumo’s fur on his legs around the knees. Hank took a step back, hands curling and uncurling at his sides, and just looked. His eyes travelled from Connor’s face to his shoulders to his waist, his hips, down each of his slender legs. In return, Connor drank his visual fill.

Hank looked better dishevelled. He was covered in white dog fur, and his jacket was undone and his shirt was already slightly untucked. His tie was stretched and wonky. His collar was creased. He had missed a singular hair when trimming his beard earlier and it hung just below the rest.

“Hank,” Connor breathed, and Hank swallowed, running his thumbs over his knuckles as he looked back to Connor’s face.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“I want to run my hands through your beard.”

Hank laughed, his eyes creasing, his cheeks bunching in a wide smile. “Get your cock on,” he said through a chuckle, “I’ve got to feed Sumo.”

Connor watched as Hank turned and headed to the kitchen, kneeling down to untie his shoes again.

“Don’t take the suit off, though. I want to undress you,” Hank called from the kitchen, and Connor let out a shaky breath as that error message popped up again.

He slipped into the bedroom as he heard the back door open and Sumo go bounding out into the garden. In the bedside drawer sat their little black box, and Connor set it on the bed as he undid his trousers, pushed everything down, and set about switching out plate for phallus. He could hear Hank moving around in the kitchen, slapping down Sumo’s dinner, drinking a glass of water, taking off his shoes. Already his cock filled half-hard with thirium, and Connor fought the desire to take himself in hand as he did up his slacks again and tucked in his shirt.

Before Hank could come into the bedroom Connor primped in front of the mirror, fixing his tie, brushing what he could of Sumo’s fur from his front. Hank leant in the doorway and watched him.

“I’m just going to take it off’ve you,” he said with a small, fond smile.

Connor tugged at the bottom of his jacket and turned, satisfied. “I like looking good for you,” he said as way of excuse. Really, he just liked looking good full stop. But there was something that was particularly intoxicating about the way Hank looked at him when he was well dressed.

Hank sighed, a deep inhale and long exhale as he walked towards Connor and crowded him against the dresser. His hands slipped up beneath his jacket and rested on the top of his slacks, thumbs tucked in and following his shirt down. “You always look good, Connor,” Hank said. Connor liked how it sounded when Hank said his name, like a little acknowledgement of his personhood, of _him_.

“So do you,” Connor replied earnestly, resting his hands just a little too low to be on Hank’s chest. Hank didn’t deny it tonight, just letting himself smile a little wider and playing his fingers over the thin material of Connor’s shirt.

“I can’t believe you dragged me out of a compulsory political ceremony to get your rocks off,” he grinned, not-so-subtly changing the subject.

“Get _our_ rocks off,” Connor corrected, canting his hips suggestively forwards.

Hank grinned even wider and took his hands to the shiny buttons on Connor’s jacket, undoing them and letting it fall loose. “C’mere,” he said, running his hands up Connor’s chest and around the back of his neck. He thumbs traced the short prickly hairs at the bottom of his cranial curve, and with his sensitivity turned up Connor shivered.

Connor let himself be pulled in, mouth already open when it met with Hank’s – warm and wet and soft. Hank’s beard was rough on his facial sensors, brushing over his chin, tickling his upper lip. Connor reached up, found the front of Hank’s neck, the freshly shaved skin oddly clammy, and then worked his way to threading his fingers through the well brushed, newly trimmed hair. He could feel the working of Hank’s jaw, the push of his tongue, and felt the vibration of Hank’s laugh before he pulled back.

“Yeah, go on, then,” Hank chuckled, letting Connor do as he wished. Connor threaded his hands through the longer hair at Hank’s chin, tugging lightly to watch Hank’s mouth open lightly. “D’you like it like this? Proper and well-groomed?”

Connor rubbed his fingers through the hair on Hank’s plush cheeks, sighing at the high scratching sound of the bristles rubbing together. “I like your beard however it is.”

“What if I shaved it off?” Hank asked, and before he could stop it Connor pulled a face. Hank laughed, his cheeks bunching under Connor’s hands.

“I find I’m quite attached to it,” Connor said as Hank calmed down and then moved his hands to push Connor’s jacket off his shoulders. Connor reluctantly took his hands from Hank’s face to let the jacket fall to the floor.

“Don’t worry, it’s not going anywhere any time soon,” Hank assured, running his hands ( _broad, wide_ ) over Connor’s arms, over his chest, his flat, hard stomach. Connor could not think of what to say in return, and so leant back in and kissed Hank again.

Hank was touching his back, was pulling him close as he pressed him against the drawers. His cock was making a casual but sure progression against Connor’s hip, and there was a slight twitch to his stance, like he was fighting the urge to grind against his partner. In response Connor’s hands were in Hank’s hair, finding the damp, hot space at the back of his head where his collar had made him sweat.

Hank pulled back, breathing heavy now as he shrugged his own jacket to the floor and then began untucking Connor’s shirt. “You okay with trying something new tonight?” he asked, undoing the fiddly buttons. He watched Connor’s face carefully, fingers tripping a few times.

“Like what?” Connor could guess what. There were only a few things that they hadn’t tried that still fell within the realm of common, or ‘normal’ sex, things which Connor had honestly expected to happen sooner. Still, he wanted to hear Hank say it.

Hank opened his mouth and then struggled with his words, looking down at Connor’s chest and abandoning his shirt for a moment to undo his tie. “I’d uh,” he started, and then laughed. “Shit, Connor, are you really gonna make me say it out loud?”

Connor noted Hank’s less than enthusiastic response to being asked to talk about penetrative sex out loud and wondered whether that extended to such things as the often termed, ‘dirty talk’. “Would you perhaps be referring to penetration?” he asked, and Hank scoffed.

“That’s a really sexy way of wording it,” he joked, and tugged Connor’s tie through his collar and off, letting it fall to the floor. “Yeah, I’m talking about me fucking you,” Hank looked up at Connor through his lashes as he continued to undo Connor’s shirt, “How does it sound?”

More thirium diverted to Connor’s cock, making it swell obviously where it pressed up against Hank. Noticing, his partner made an appreciative noise and pushed their hips together in a short, slow grind.

“That sounds good,” Connor said, sounding breathless, and Hank smiled so his eyes creased, and then they were kissing again. Connor fiddled with his cufflinks in the small space between them, happy to finally scatter them on top of the dresser and let his shirt off over his wrists. Hank was touching Connor’s sides and back, and Connor became very aware of the disparity between their states of dress.

He pulled at Hank’s tie just as Hank began to work on the flies of his trousers. When Hank pulled back to see what he was doing he was still smiling, fondness in his eyes. Connor tugged his tie off, fingering the warp and weft of the fabric before discarding it and getting to Hank’s shirt. The sound of his zip opening was loud, and then Hank’s hand was sliding into Connor’s trousers and wrapping around his shaft. Connor jolted his hips into Hank’s fist and moaned.

Hank made a throaty noise as he stroked Connor’s cock, movement limited in the confines of his stiff slacks. “Get on the bed,” he murmured, taking his hand off of Connor and taking over his own undressing. His belt buckle clinked loudly.

Connor nodded, shimmying out of his trousers and briefs as he went.

“What are those?” Hank asked behind him. Connor turned and then followed Hank’s gaze to his feet, ankles, and up his calves.

“They’re sock garters,” he said simply, sitting on the edge of the bed, his cock bobbing between his legs. Hank dropped his trousers and kicked them away.

“Well, yeah, but why are you wearing them?”

“They provide support. I have found that most elastic-based socks fall down after a time,” Connor explained. Hank raised an eyebrow at him, a bemused smile on his face as he shrugged out of his shirt, leaving him only in his boxers and socks (which were, by the way, bunched around his ankles).

Hank hummed, and Connor, raking his eyes over Hank’s body, spread his legs a little wider on the bed. “Keep them on,” Hank said, “they suit you.”

Connor hadn’t considered that they may hold sexual appeal, but Hank’s reactions were telling: a .3% increase in the size of his pupils, a quickening to his heart beat, a tell-tale swelling in the front of his boxers. Connor smiled, scooted up further on the bed, and lay back with one hand out towards Hank. With a soft noise, Hank tugged off his underwear and clambered up to join his partner.

They met with a kiss, Hank’s fingers tangling with Connor’s, his nose bent against Connor’s hard cheek. He sighed into their lips, nudging Connor’s legs apart and settling between them. Their cocks rubbed together and Connor gasped, stuttering a hand over Hank’s hip. There was something lewd about stroking from knee to back without the interruption of cloth, making Hank’s nudity more pronounced. His sac rested hot and soft over the base of Connor’s cock.

Hank pulled down, kissed at Connor’s neck where he was sensitive. He tongued at the inflexible lobe of his ear, he bit at his collarbone. Under him, Connor’s artificial breathing grew more and more laboured.

“Hank,” he breathed, and Hank grunted as he sucked at Connor’s throat. Connor wished he could bruise, could be marked. “Come here,” he said, and pulled his hand from Hank’s to tangle in his hair to drag Hank up and then past him so he could return the favour.

Connor kissed at Hank’s neck thoroughly. Big, open mouthed-presses that devolved into sweeps of his tongue and then finally teeth, his mouth sealed over the sternocleidomastoid muscle as he sucked and scraped and Hank moaned above him. Each sound buzzed against Connor’s lips. Hank’s sweat and aftershave was on his tongue. _Water, sodium, urea, ethanol, perfume._

“Yeah, mark me up,” Hank was muttering, hips jerking in small thrusts and working his cock against Connor’s hip. With another, hard suck Connor pulled back and with his hand in Hank’s hair angled him so that he could properly survey his work. A large red bruise was beginning to form, the capillaries at the surface of the skin broken and marking Hank with mottled pinpricks of red. It would last for days.

Hank tugged against the hand in his hair and Connor let him go. His chest was subjected to a flurry of wet, desperate kisses, both nipples wetted by Hank’s tongue before he worked his way down again.

“You don’t have a refractory period, right?” Hank asked against Connor’s stomach. He had crawled his way down to the foot of the bed and half-lay there.

Connor shook his head. “I am able to sexually perform for as long as I have the energy, the lubricant, and the desire to,” he said. Hank ran a thumb over the leather of his sock garter with a grin.

“We’ll explore than another time,” he promised, and then smoothed his hand up Connor’s thigh and then around his cock, giving a few firm strokes. “For now I’m gonna suck your dick, get you nice and relaxed.”

“I don’t need to relax, my bio-”

“Connor, are you really turning down a blowjob?” Hank interrupted, rubbing his thumb over the sensitive spot just below the head. It’s where the frenulum would be, if Connor had one. Connor closed his mouth and shook his head with a sheepish smile, pressing up into Hank’s touch.

“That’s what I thought,” Hank said, and readjusted himself on the bed. Connor sighed and settled, plumping the pillow behind his head so that he could look down at Hank with little trouble.

Hank wasn’t much of a showman when it came to blowjobs – he didn’t really like to be watched much – but what he lacked in visual stimulation he made up for in physical. Connor’s HUD crowded with pop-ups as Hank took him into his mouth, down, down. His tongue slid over the underside of Connor’s cock. The hypersensitivity of Connor’s skin meaning he could feel each taste bud as it moved over him, and he squirmed with the knowledge that Hank was _tasting_ him.

Hank made a hungry noise, like he had heard Connor’s thoughts, and sucked lewdly as he came back up. He stroked over Connor with his fist, spreading the slick of his saliva over his length. Connor twitched, and curled a leg around Hank’s middle. A few breaths later and Hank was back on him, deeper this time, until his nose was tickled by the hairs at the base of Connor’s component.

Connor whined, pressing his face into the pillow as Hank hummed and then sucked, tongue fluttering over his length. Hank easily bobbed his head over Connor, his hair brushing his thighs and stomach. The wet sound of his cock slipping in and out of the back of Hank’s throat were loud in the bedroom, easily cutting over Connor’s tight breaths.

Eventually Hank pulled off, panting. A thick, slick string of spit and lubricant ran from the glossy head of Connor’s prick to Hank’s mouth. Connor moaned at the sight of it, bucking his hips up towards Hank’s face without thought.

“Easy there,” Hank laughed, swallowing thickly. He stroked Connor’s cock quickly, slick and wet. Connor groaned, the pleasure signal crowding his processor and the data from his sensors pouring in at a rate of knots. “You think you can keep from choking me if we try something?”

Connor considered. He had exceptional control of his body; the accuracy of his movement preconstructed by his CPU and always executed with a 0.001% margin of error. However, when Connor was with Hank he often felt like he wasn’t aware of his own strength or ability, like his desire for touch and lip and cock was overwhelming. His LED circled in yellow at his temple. Hank continued to stroke his cock.

“Connor?” he eventually prompted, when the reply took too long to arrive.

“I’d prefer not to, if that is alright,” Connor said. Hank smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, that’s alright,” he said, voice soft and deep. He shifted close again, pressing his hips against the mattress. “No bucking,” he warned, and then took Connor’s cock back into his mouth, lips air-cooled but tongue hot.

Not bucking was easier. Connor easily interrupted movement orders from his CPU towards his hips, relaxing them floppily and heavily against the bed. Hank laughed around him, three short buzzes that had Connor gasping and clawing at the pillow. His tongue flattened and then pointed, tracing the underside of Connor’s cock with each movement of Hank’s head.

Around him, Hank was making noises, little bitten off sounds of pleasure. Over his head, his grey mane of hair, Connor could see his hips thrusting against the bed in minute movements. The uneven laboured breath from his nose gusted over Connor’s crotch and sac, making his pubic hair tickle and his legs twitch. Hank went as deep as he could and swallowed around him, and Connor let out a moan more static than voice.

Obviously encouraged, Hank continued with vigour, fucking his mouth over Connor’s cock with lewd, wet sounds. Connor groaned, fingers twisting in the pillowcase as he spiralled higher and higher, as his systems overloaded. Three more firm sucks and Connor was coming with a startled, garbled yelp.

“Ha- Ha-a-a-nk!”

Connor felt it as time slowed again, as his mind palace half-blinked into existence and then vanished. He could feel Hank’s tongue sliding back to keep his come from choking him, could feel the tremble of his shoulders through the mattress, his heartbeat fluttering like hummingbird wings in his thumb pressed on Connor’s thigh. He could hear the high whine of the halogen lightbulb in the bedside lamp. He could smell Hank’s sweat, his arousal, his aftershave, and still the lime from his drink.

Hank groaned around him, face flushed red, brow drawn up as he waited for Connor to finish spilling into his mouth. Then he pulled off with a quiet, hungry sound and swallowed thickly. Connor panted against the pillow, breath hot as it tried to cool his overheating systems.

“You good?” Hank asked from between his legs, beard rasping against the sensors on his inner thigh. Connor nodded, and tilted his head to show Hank his LED, circling in calm clear blue. There was a grin in Hank’s voice when he next spoke. “Are you ready for the next part?”

Connor nodded again, even forcing out a slightly warped noise. There was a firm tap on his hip, two fingers, twice.

“Roll over for me,” Hank said, and Connor could hear the roughness in his voice from taking Connor’s cock into his throat. He swallowed, a pre-programmed gesture and a reaction to the phantom, empathetic stretched feeling his throat suddenly experienced. With another nod he carefully twisted his upper half, waiting for Hank to clamber out of the way, and then lay on his front.

Hank’s hands circled his ankles, pulling them apart, and Connor felt himself lubricate in response, a small, slick trickle leaking from his entrance. He sighed breathily, his vocal processors beginning to come back online. As Hank moved his hands up Connor’s legs, over his calves, his thighs, to his arse, Connor shivered, each artificial muscle-replica tensing and then relaxing under the long glide of Hank’s palms.

“Hank,” he mumbled, voice still pulled apart and mechanical. In rely Hank’s hands squeezed at his behind. His thumbs traced the cleft of his arse, dry where a human’s would be damp and hot, and then slipped down to his hole.

“Hank, I want to see your face,” Connor said, trying to peer over his shoulder.

“Shh, not yet,” Hank replied, and Connor knew then, could tell where Hank’s head was in relation to their position. He let out a long, stuttering breath.

“ _Oh_ ,” he sighed. Hank’s thumb pressed into the tight hot space of his biocomponent.

“Oh,” Hank echoed, teasing, laughing, happy, and Connor felt himself smile widely in response. He could feel Hank’s breath on the small of his back, and gently raised his hips for Hank’s comfort and ease.

He kissed, first, at the space where Connor’s coccyx would have been, a smooth and oddly soft space on an android, devoid of the evolutionary remnant. Then Hank’s tongue dragged a long, wet, trembling line down his cleft to his hole. His beard was rough on the pseudo-skin of his glutes, and Connor trembled at the feel of it. The tip of his thumb was still in Connor’s arse, and Hank licked wetly, lewdly around it with a gust of breath that had Connor’s hands clenching on the bedsheets.

“You know,” Hank said, voice rough and dark, “It’s kind of hot that you taste like your cum, here.”

Connor shuddered, arching his back as much as possible, exposing himself. “My lubricant and my ejaculate are the same composite,” he explained, voice sounding like it was his again. In reply Hank made an absent sound and pressed his tongue back against Connor hole with enthusiasm.

Against the bedspread, Connor’s cock hardened again, filling quickly until it was full and heavy. Hank’ thumb left him and his tongue licked over Connor once, twice, before spearing inside. It wasn’t exactly satisfying, not in the way his fingers were – thick and long and spreading him open – but it was filthy and wet and the hairs on Hank’s chin tickled over Connor’s sac. He moaned loudly into the still air. When Hank moaned back Connor felt it inside of him and gasped, eyes rolling.

Hank fucked him lazily on his tongue, occasionally tiring and pulling out to lick broad swipes over his rim until Connor was soaked inside and out, viscous drips clinging to his sac where they had rolled down.

“Hank,” Connor whispered, over and over, until it became too much, too little, and he shook with want. “Hank, please, I need more.”

Hank pressed a hot, wet kiss to the top of Connor’s thigh, his breathing heavy and loud in the room, and let out a groan. “Yeah, okay,” he said, breathless, as he knelt up and shuffled forwards. Connor heard his wipe his spit and lube-slick beard on the back of his hand, and felt the wet head of his cock bump against the back of his thigh.

“I want to see you,” he reminded, his first experience with his cock in Hank’s hand clear in his mind. Hank groaned behind him, grinding his length against Connor’s back briefly.

“Yeah, c’mon then, turn ‘round.” Hank patted him on the hip again and Connor quickly rolled over, legs flailing a moment before settling back on either side of Hank’s.

Hank was flushed, his eyes dark and wild, his beard still wet with saliva and lubricant. His nose had gone red and shiny with the heat, and he had a sheen of sweat over his neck and chest. Connor let out a breathy moan at the sight of him and reached to pull him down, fingers clutching at the soft, white flesh of his arms.

Hank’s mouth tasted of him. _Aqua, Hydroxethlcellulose, Propylene Glycol, Ethylhexyglycerin, Phenoxyethanol_. Connor could smell his sweat, _aqua, lactic acid, urea, sodium_. He moaned into their kiss, fingers biting crescents into Hank’s shoulders. His beard was wet and scratchy against his chin and cheeks, leaving him smeared with their combined fluids and making him gasp.

“In me,” Connor panted, his legs up and around Hank’s hips. Hank’s arms shook where he leant on his elbows. His hair fell around them like a curtain. “Hank, please.”

Hank let out a shaky breath, “Okay, yeah, okay,” he said, and leant heavily on one arm, taking the other down between them to grasp himself. “Uh, condom?” he asked, and Connor shook his head.

“I’m not in need of one. I can self-clean,” he said, and Hank nodded, looking oddly, suddenly nervous.

“Can you shove a pillow under yourself, to prop you up?” he asked, and Connor nodded, grabbing the one under his head and moving it down beneath his hips. Hank trembled and shifted, changing the pressure on his arm. “Okay,” he said, “okay…”

Hank shifted again, and Connor felt the blunt head of his cock press against his arse cheek and then shift and find his entrance.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Hank said firmly.

“I cannot sense pain, Hank,” Connor reminded, and Hank nodded, face looking pinched.

“Just- tell me if it’s too much, or if you want to stop,” he begged, eyes flicking between each of Connor’s. Connor slid his hand up to cup Hank’s jaw, stroking his thumb over his cheekbone and into the damp hair at his temple.

“Okay,” he whispered. Hank nodded and looked down between them, though the shadows cast by the lamps and the angle he was at meant he saw nothing other than his own stomach, tensed so as not to press against Connor, and Connor’s lean body and hard cock. He moved, pressing his hips forwards, and there was a moment before Connor’s component stretched and accepted him. Hank made a gasping sound like he had been hit and moved his hand from the base of his cock to grab at Connor’s spread thigh.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered to himself as he pushed in further, eyes fluttering closed as he slid home easily.

Connor bit at his lips, sensors firing off data to his processor at an extraordinary rate. Stretched, filling, _foreign body detected_. He let out a whimper as the associated pleasure signal began to start up again in his coding, heightened by the new sensation of Hank’s cock entering his body. Hank blinked his eyes open, petting Connor’s thigh soothingly.

“Connor?” he asked.

Connor stroked Hank’s cheek again and squeezed his legs against Hank’s sides. “It’s good,” he said simply, voice already slightly disturbed by his pleasure.

Hank smiled, pressing in a little faster and watching as Connor gasped and bit the tip of his tongue.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he hissed, and thrust his hips in a final, quick motion. Seated to the root he sighed and rested his other arm back beside Connor’s head.

“I can adjust that, if you-” Connor was already loosening fractionally around Hank’s cock.

“No, no,” Hank was quick to say. “Just… don’t expect me to last very long. It’s been a long while and you’re…” he let out a low breath of air, leaning down to kiss Connor sweetly. “You’re fucking amazing.”

Connor sighed against the kiss, clenching his legs again around Hank’s middle. “Please move,” he murmured. Hank nodded with a low groan, kissed him again, and shifted back before rocking back in slowly. A dozen notifications crowded Connor’s HUD and his LED circled in glowing yellow.

“You good?” Hank asked, eyes stuck to the blinking circle.

“More,” Connor breathed, both hands on Hank’s back again, gripping at him.

Hank complied, setting a slow pace with deep thrusts that had him gasping and Connor moaning each time Hank bottomed out. He’d not quite expected it to feel like it did. There was a dextrousness to fingers that a prick lacked, and that dulled the pleasure picked up from his internal sensors. But Hank was thick, stretching him wide and making him full, so full, and so wet. Hank’s stomach was pressed against Connor’s cock, rubbing against him with each thrust, and his breath was on his face, and he was sticky with sweat where Connor’s warm hands rested on his shoulder blades. It was intoxicating, it was intimate.

Connor felt Hank shudder, felt the next thrust with a fraction more force, and groaned encouragingly.

“Yeah?” Hank asked, voice more breath than sound, whistling through his teeth. He thrust again, harder this time, and notifications scattered over Connor’s HUD as the pleasure signal increased in potency.

“Yeah,” he replied, and _oh_ , when had he shut his eyes? “Fuck, yes.”

Hank groaned through his teeth, picking up his pace, each snap of his hips resulting in a loud, lewd clapping sound of his skin meeting Connor’s silicone. Connor’s fingernails were biting into Hank’s back, dragging with each thrust, slick with Hank’s sweat and leaving stinging lines that had Hank gasping and arching. His stomach rubbed against Connor’s cock mercilessly, and then Hank grunted and stopped.

Connor whined as Hank shifted, obviously readjusting as his hip had stiffened under the weight of his back. When Hank thrust again his angle had changed, and he managed to slide over the sensor acting similar to a prostate. Connor made a raw sound, one that Hank repeated back to him before burying his face in Connor’s neck to kiss and lick and bite. His breath was ragged in Connor’s ear, and Connor was quickly joining him, his lungs filling and emptying at a rapid rate. Hank’s hair was on his face, in his mouth, tickling his tongue with each breath.

“Oh, fuck,” Hank hissed against his cheek. “Oh fuck, you feel good.” There was a choked quality to his voice, something that echoed in Connor’s glitching speaker as he moaned.

There was _too much_. Too much information flooding his sensors. A cacophony of data swirled in his processor, and warnings flashed up before his eyes. His LED circled yellow, yellow, then red. _Sensory overload detected, culling unneeded processes._

“Hank,” Connor said, gripping him tight. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want what his programming would think of as unnecessary. He wanted the pleasure, all of it. He wanted the stretch of Hank’s cock, the throb of his thirium pumping in _#2481p_. He wanted to come. He wanted to come so badly.

Connor ran through his processes on his own, killing those that weren’t necessary to his pleasure. “Hank,” he said again, and Hank stopped, suddenly hearing the anxiety in his partner’s voice.

“What?” he asked, as tense as a bowstring and ready to pull away if Connor needed it. There was a movement as Hank raised his head, and Connor opened his eyes just as Hank noticed the circle of flashing red at his temple.

“I need to turn off unnecessary processes,” he quickly said before Hank could pull away. “It’s not dangerous. I won’t… I’ll look…”

Hank looked panicked, and Connor could feel him softening already.

“I have to turn off my skin,” he explained.

Hank paused. He’d seen Connor without his skin once before. He’d been injured during a case. For repairs he’d been powered down, and his skin had shrunk back until it was a pinpoint of liquid silicone against the centre of his chest. Hank had watched, antsy, as Connor lay vulnerable: shiny and white and grey.

“Do we need to stop?” He asked, voice gravelly.

Connor shook his head. A number of other processes shut down, his mind clearing, but his LED was still a moment off blinking away from red. “No,” he assured, “but I do need to turn off my pseudo-dermal layer.”

Hank nodded minutely, before nodding more vigorously. He leant heavily on one arm as he tucked some of his hair behind his ear. It was damp from being in Connor’s mouth. “Okay,” he said, voice quiet between the two of them. He shifted, hips impatient, cock still hard inside of Connor.

His face was calm, was open, was loving. Still, Connor felt nervousness as he let his skin pull back in a wave. He tried to see himself in the reflection of Hank’s eyes, but in the dim light came up short.

“There you are,” Hank sighed when at last Connor was bare: a hairless, skinless creature of silicone and steel. There was curiosity in his expression as Hank looked over Connor’s face, mapping the structure of his features, still there but different now without that added layer of fleshiness. Connor’s LED still circled in yellow, yellow, yellow at his temple.

Hank stroked a hand over the bare, smooth dome of Connor’s steel scalp. Then he leant in and kissed his bare lips. “You’re fucking beautiful,” he whispered, and Connor let out a breath like a sigh, his tense frame relaxing.

“Please keep fucking me,” he whispered back. Hank smiled against his lips, a wide and toothy grin, and snapped his hips forwards.

Without the layer of Connor’s skin, the sound they made when they met was different, softer. The wet sounds of Hank’s cock sliding in and out of Connor’s hole filled the space left by the silence, and his ragged breaths puffed over Connor’s face. The warnings left Connor’s HUD, his processor no longer faltering under the onslaught of data. Still his voice warped, frying at the edges with each gasped moan fucked out of him.

Hank was still pressing up against that sensor with each thrust, the firm head of his cock nudging against it. It sparked colours behind Connor’s eyes, it made the pleasure rush all the more potent. Each time Hank’s hips met with the back of Connor’s thighs he let out a glitched mewling sound, and each time Hank echoed back in a groan.

“Connor, fuck,” Hank choked, hips stuttering and losing their rhythm. “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come now.”

Connor whined, arching his back, pressing his cock up into the soft hairy flesh of Hank’s belly. “Please,” he begged, fingers grabbing the excess fat over Hank’s ribs.

Hank thrust once, twice, hard, and spilled with a loud moan. Connor could feel it filling him up wetly, messily. His voice glitched hard, catching and pulling, and he wormed a hand between them to grab at his cock.

Hank was still groaning short, bitten off curses as Connor stripped his hand over the featureless component, twitching against him. “Holy fuck I love you,” he breathed, and that was it, Connor was following him, coming for the second time that night.

He bucked fiercely, his strength easily jostling them both, and let out a long, garbled string of static sound as he came, and came. The lubricant shot messily over his abdomen, smearing against Hank’s chest, and Connor shivered as he clenched in waves around Hank’s softening member. In reply Hank gave a surprised, oversensitive yelp.

When it was done Connor felt as if his internal structuring had shifted, like the titanium bones of his body had been melted down and reformed with compromised integrity. His legs fell akimbo, and he let his arms flop down either side of him.

“Shit,” Hank said eloquently, and pulled out as he rolled to the side, collapsing on the bed beside his partner.

Connor found his speaker was malfunctioning, so he nodded his agreement. He should turn his skin back on, he thought. He should reboot the systems he had culled for the feeling of his own pleasure. But he had no desire to focus on those tasks with the pleasure signal still running through his code.

Hank put a hand, so wide and warm, on Connor’s abdomen just over his core. Connor let out a small blip of static in response, his thirium pump skipping.

Joy. He felt joy.

“Are you good?” Hank asked, his voice rough and wrecked. His come was leaking from Connor’s hole, trickling down with his lube to make a mess of the bedsheets.

Connor still could not speak. He attempted to force a restart of his speakers. In the meantime he caught Hank’s eyes and nodded, smiling.

Hank smiled in response. “Can’t speak?” he asked, mirth in his voice and in his eyes.

Connor smiled wider and shook his head, delighting in Hank’s laugh.

“Okay,” Hank laughed, and readjusted his position on the bed. He winced, something that Connor caught despite not running at full capacity. He’d hurt his hip, most likely. They’d try a different position next time, perhaps with Connor on top. Connor thought they’d both enjoy that. Hank sighed and leant over to kiss him gently. “I should get some wet wipes.”

Connor’s speaker still wouldn’t start up. He started some of the other processes instead as it struggled and sent several texts to Hank’s phone which buzzed in the pocket of his abandoned slacks. Hank groaned, making to ignore it.

“That’ll be Fowler,” he said grumpily. Connor shook his head, placed a hand on Hank’s shoulder, and pushed. “What?” he asked, frowning, and Connor repeated the action, nodding his head towards Hank’s trousers and letting an embarrassing slip of static buzz from his throat.

Hank sighed, rolled over and away, and staggered as he stood up. Definitely his hip. As he bent to rifle through the pockets of his puddled trousers, Connor turned his skin back on, letting it glide over his torso, his limbs, his neck and head.

_My speaker is malfunctioning. I may have to reboot. :^)_

_I love you, Hank. :^*_

_Please bring the wet wipes. :^S_

Hank snorted as he read through the texts. There was an obvious nervousness at reading about Connor’s speakers, but his post-fuck relaxation meant that his shoulders barely tensed. “Yeah, I love you too, Connor,” he said, turning to look at his partner, eyes stuttering over his form with its human appearance back in place. His voice was soft, vulnerable. He looked awkward, always a little too top heavy on his slim calves and ankles. His eyes were fond, and his hair was messed. Connor liked him like this. “You, uh, do your reboot thing. I’ll get us cleaned up.”

Connor nodded, as it was pretty much all he could do. Hank’s phone buzzed.

_It will take approximately fifteen minutes. Do not worry. :^P_

Hank snorted again. “I won’t. Go on then.” He placed his phone on the dresser and made to head to the bathroom. Connor, fixated on getting his speakers back into working order, settled himself better against the bed, closed his eyes, and began a reboot of his systems.

Twelve minutes, thirteen seconds, ten milliseconds later and Connor blinked his eyes open. He could smell the perfume of the wet wipes, could feel the tightness of drying ethanol on his abdomen, on his fingers, between his legs. Hank was beside him, a pair of boxers covering him, their clothes vaguely gathered and badly folded on the dresser. Connor ran a diagnostic; green green, green. Amber. _Damage to connector #651vc. Audio capability limited_.

“Hank,” Connor said, testing his abilities. His voice was strained and quiet, tinny. Hank jumped out of his doze with a small snore.

“Hm?” he coughed, blinking his eyes rapidly.

“I will have to go for repairs tomorrow.”

Hank blinked at Connor. “Are you hurt?” he asked, suddenly moving, his hand on Connor’s chest, feeling the steady thud of his thirium pump.

“No,” Connor said, and wished he didn’t sound so fragile, “I seem to have overloaded a connector to my speaker. It is a simple fix. Until then, I will sound like this.”

Hank relaxed, sighing. “Wait, are you telling me you did the equivalent of screaming yourself hoarse?”

Connor nodded earnestly, and Hank laughed, throaty and sleepy. “Shit, okay,” he chuckled, fingers petting Connor’s chest. “Tomorrow, repairs. Gotcha.”

Connor smiled at him, at Hank, undone and messy and tired, half-dozing and half-laughing. Hank with his trimmed beard hastily washed clean of the lube from Connor’s components. Hank with his blue eyes creased and shining. “I love you,” he said, wanting to say it aloud even with his weakened voice.

Hank sobered, eyes slowly opening, mirth transmuting into a breathless tenderness. “I love you, too,” he said, voice quiet and husky but warm with truth. “Now stop talking, rest up.” Hank leant down and kissed Connor’s forehead. His beard tickled over Connor’s eyebrow and eyelashes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELP this took far longer than expected and become much more than expected. I would just like to thank my friends for putting up with me whilst I bothered them with


End file.
